


Progress, Not Perfection

by punkrockbarbie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drug Addiction, F/F, Femslash, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Ron Weasley Bashing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockbarbie/pseuds/punkrockbarbie
Summary: All of Wizarding Britain suffered in the war, but few suffered more than Hermione Granger. After over a decade away, the brightest witch of her age is returning to England to take a position at Hogwarts. But although Hermione survived the war, she isn't quite the person she once was. While Hermione struggles to find happiness in her new life, some of her most treasured companions struggle to come to terms the ways their old friend has changed. In the end, whether with old friends, old enemies, or new proteges, this fic follows Hermione as she (hopefully) learns that she still has people in her corner, even after all these years.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 142
Kudos: 302





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blinding Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332246) by [16pennies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/16pennies/pseuds/16pennies). 
  * Inspired by [Saving Souls & Healing Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13299468) by [BatwingLawyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatwingLawyer/pseuds/BatwingLawyer). 
  * Inspired by [Perhaps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10532682) by [Naralanis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naralanis/pseuds/Naralanis). 



> Hi everyone. 
> 
> This fic is going to be yet another Hermione-centric "PTSD-From-Malfoy-Manor" fic. I've lost count of how many of these I've read, and while I've absolutely loved many of them, none are ever *quite* what I'm looking for (even if some are still far better than anything I'll ever write lol) so I decided to write my own. For reference, my favorites (by a long shot) are the *absolutely wonderful* Fleurmione and Cissamione fics "Saving Souls and Healing Hearts" and "Perhaps", and they've undoubtedly inspired this fic in countless ways, maybe most by convincing me that it will be genuinely worthwhile to write a fanfic :P
> 
> A few notes: 
> 
> 1\. This is my first fanfic. Please consider commenting if you enjoy it, or if you have criticism to offer. It's lonely writing this otherwise.  
> 2\. I still haven't quite decided on the romantic pairing to be totally honest. There are three serious candidates right now. I think it'll be influenced by how the story moves ahead :). Expect a fairly slow burn.  
> 3\. This is going be 100% gung ho about ron-bashing. I love that trope tbqh. Also he's a piece of shit lol  
> 4\. This is femslash.  
> 5\. This is almost certainly *not* going to be poly, despite the multiple pairings listed.  
> 6\. I'll make some minor tweaks to ages, births, etc as I need to. Hermione is in her early thirties.  
> 7\. I've written quite a bit more, but I need to get ahead, think about what's going to fit together, and painstakingly edit before I post it.
> 
> hope u guys enjoy my fic!

**The Brightest Witch of Her Age Returns to Hogwarts!**

Hermione Jean Granger’s face was plastered on the front page of the Daily Prophet and Holly Tremblay could not possibly be more excited.

The brains of the Golden Trio, the brightest witch of her age, the woman who saved Harry Potter countless times was going to be her _professor_. She rushed up the ballroom’s spiral staircase as fast as her feet would carry her and opened the door to her mother’s bedroom.

“Mama, look!” She cried. Morticia Tremblay was sitting in front of her vanity with her wand in hand, deciding how to do her makeup for the day. She quirked an eyebrow at her daughter. Holly blushed: she knew she was acting childish, but this was simply too exciting to contain. She thrust the paper out in front of her.

“She’s going to be teaching at Hogwarts! She’s going to be my professor!” Holly breathed. Morticia frowned and took the paper in her hands. Her eyes flickered to the page, scanned the page not a moment and then widened dramatically.

“Oh my...”

“I know, Mama, can you believe it? I just know she’ll be so much better than the usual Hogwarts professors They say she works with all sorts of forgotten magic; she doesn’t even _need_ dark magic because she got so powerful without it.” Holly grinned.

“And who says this?”

“Everyone.” Holly said dismissively. “Don’t be silly mother. Her love is an auror after all, she’s a _far_ stronger witch than he is. In Caliban’s History of the Second Wizard war they say he wasn’t even _there_ for half of it.”

“Caliban was charged with libel sweetie.”

Holly snorted. “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong. I asked Sev and he thinks it’s true. He says he heard his mom and dad arguing with Mr. Weasley” – Holly sneered at that – “about it one night when he was growing up. Even if she didn’t have some dumb prophecy behind her she was the best of the Golden Trio and everyone knows it. I just know she’s going to be the best professor.”

Her mother hummed along in what might have been agreement, but Holly didn’t pay it any mind. She had too many thoughts that she _needed_ to share.

“Caliban says Professor Granger was really close to the teachers at Hogwarts when she was growing up. She’ll probably be really close to us. Maybe she’ll even be the head of house. It almost makes me wish I was a Gryffindor I just know she’d make the best head of house. Still, I’m sure any bright student will be welcome in Ms. Granger’s office. That’s just the kind of person she is; I just know she’ll be excited to share her knowledge with the next generation.”

Holly was about to launch into a discussion of Professor Granger’s rumored research when her mother’s voice brought her train of thought to a sudden halt.

“She doesn’t look much older than you here, does she?”

Holly looked at the photo. She’d seen the headline then skimmed the article in a few quick seconds. Hermione Granger’s visage blinked and gave a strained, awkward smile. She looked _uncomfortable._ Holly frowned.

“This is just a bad photo mom. The Prophet has always been a trash publication. I’m surprised anyone kept reading it after the war; do you even know what they did? Nevermind that. There are a lot of photos of her in Caliban, far better photos. She looks perfect in them; you just _know_ seeing the three of them together that she was the brains behind the Trio.”

Holly’s mother hummed again, but this time, Holly noticed. It wasn’t a hum of agreement like she’d assumed: her mother knew something, or thought she knew something. Holly cleared her throat, but her mother was still staring at the Prophet. She cleared it again, louder this time, and her mother looked up into her eyes.

“What is it?” Holly said.

“Oh, nothing dear, I was just thinking.” Her mother smiled blandly. Holly narrowed her eyes. She _hated_ when her mother hid things from her and she _knew_ that was what she was doing now. God, her mother could be _patronizing_ sometimes, as if Holly was just a _child_. Morticia sighed.

“It’s been twelve years since I’ve heard any news at all about Ms. Granger.” She said.

“So?”

“So, have you ever heard Albus mention her? You’ve never shared any stories with me.”

Holly huffed. “Well, I don’t have to tell you every single thing I hear about Professor Granger.”

Her mother did that damnable “hum” again. Holly glared at her for a moment, and then her shoulders slumped.

“No, he’s never shared any stories with me.”

“I see.” Morticia said. Holly’s frown only grew more serious.

“What aren’t you saying, Mama?”

Morticia sighed. “I don’t really know, sweetheart. It’s just that war can change people, and this photo looks like it was taken over a decade ago, and I doubt anything in _Caliban_ is more recent. Isn’t it strange that Ms. Granger is only now returning to Hogwarts? She likely could have started teaching a decade ago.”

“That’s simple enough to answer,” Holly huffed. “She was taking a break, they say she was off studying other forgotten types of magics. I can’t wait to ask her about them!”

“Who says that she was off studying forgotten magic?”

“…The Prophet.” Holly said begrudgingly.

Morticia only sighed again, but more resigned this time. “Just don’t get your hopes up, darling. I’d hate to see you disappointed.”

Holly rolled her eyes at that. “I _know_ the war was hard, believe me, but Uncle Harry certainly managed and I know he isn’t as strong as Professor Granger. I’m sure she’s changed, everyone changes. But how do you know it hasn’t been for the better?”

“Holly,” Morticia sighed. “This photo looks over a decade old.”

“Well, I’m sure the Prophet would have liked to see something younger but she’s probably been off learning more about magic than any of us could possibly know. Did you know she spent over a year in Albania?”

Morticia didn’t say anything for a moment. Holly felt a strange, sinking feeling in her stomach, a kind of anxiety with an origin she didn’t understand.

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed, darling.” Her mom said sadly. Holly hated to see her mother worried, even if she did treat Holly like she was just a little girl sometimes. So Holly flashed her mother her biggest, brightest smile.

“I’m not a kid mom, I know she’s not the perfect hero. Don’t worry.” Holly pulled her mom into a hug. If her mom was worried about such a silly thing, Holly was happy to give her comfort, but deep in her heart she already knew that her fourth year was going to be the best year ever, because even if Hermione Granger wasn’t the perfect hero, she was damn close.

* * *

It was the first day of Hogwarts and Hermione Granger’s hands were shaking as she reached for the jar sitting on her nightstand. Her hands betrayed her: so unreliable they had become, clammy and shaking and threatening to spill the draught all over her nightshirt. Her stomach roiled and clenched as she took her morning draught of Oxycosia, then suddenly calmed. The potion’s taste was biting and acidic and had a sickening, _unnatural_ sweetness to it that would make most people vomit. Hermione knew on some level that she had once found it disgusting, that the draught was every bit as revolting as people claimed. She vaguely remembered when she had started drinking it, how difficult it had been to even let touch her tongue. And yet, she also knew on a more honest, more visceral level, that at some point she had grown to _love_ it. The Cruciatus shakes, the ones that crawled over her skin (like a million tiny pins that each drew blood) ebbed away with each swallow, and the familiar, warm feeling of Oxycosia took their place. It settled in her stomach, constricting around her heart like a warm blanket, and suddenly she wasn’t _calm_ , but she could fake it. That was enough.

Even with the anxiety still there ( _always there, watching, waiting, waving her wand, manic mumbling and magic for muddy)_ gripping her heart, it did so with fumbling fingers. The painful remnants of a time long past were ever-present, but kept at bay. She could handle this. The shaking of her hands had stilled, but her palms were still cold and clammy with sweat. She hated this version of herself. Hermione Jean Granger, _Brains_ _of the Golden Trio,_ the _brightest_ witch of her age, and she couldn’t speak to another human being without being doped within an inch of her life.

McGonagall had tried to offer her the position over a decade ago, before even her first time at St. Mungo’s. The time then wasn’t right, even though Minerva insisted it would be good for her. That was part of the problem: no matter what happened, Minerva still saw her former pupil. Hermione knew better. That girl wasn’t gone, but she’d been twisted and shaped into something else, something so _fragile_ that the burden of keeping herself going was overwhelming in the best of times.

Hermione’s made her way to the bathroom to clean herself up. The night never treated her well, and every morning she woke slick with sweat as if she were in the midst of a fever.

_Better up the dose again_ she thought. She had no right to be teaching these students, they deserved a hero to teach them, maybe someone like Harry? It wasn’t as if Harry had come away unscathed. It wasn’t as if Harry hadn’t _suffered_ , but he managed not to ruin his life. Harry wasn’t a trainwreck. She stared at herself in the mirror, idly itching her forearm, looking into her own eyes and trying to find some modicum of strength, but she only saw dark circles and a hollow shell wrapped around what used to be a person. Hermione gave herself a small, tenuous smile, anyway.

_“Fake it till you make it, Granger.”_ Dr. Tuttle had told her, so many times.

It would be fine. She was fine. McGonagall believed in her. So did Fleur and supposedly so did Harry. She needed to do this, to do this correctly.

A knock on the door to her chambers startled Hermione from her reverie. _The wards: I didn’t even notice the wards went off. Maybe it’s Fleur?_ But when she opened the door, Narcissa Malfoy was staring her in the face. Hermione’s eyes widened and her gut clenched.

_Why does it have to be her?_

“Miss Granger. Welcome back.”

Hermione was dumbstruck for a short moment. Some part of her, locked away deep inside, wanting to yell and rage at Narcissa. To scream at her for the years that had been taken from her, for the mind that she had lost over her months in Malfoy Manor. But that part of her was far away, and her anger was but a puddle next to the tsunami of fear-soaked unease that threatened to overwhelm her. So her rage was discarded, all-but-forgotten, and all that she managed was a rather terse: “What do you want Narcissa?”

Narcissa cocked an eyebrow in a silent question, but Hermione looked away, itching her forearm.

“We’re going to be coworkers. I thought it only prudent to come by.” Narcissa sniffed, as if to dismiss Hermione’s question as silly after-the-fact, then added, “Professor Delacour mentioned she wouldn’t be able to see you before the Sorting.”

13 years had not made much of a change in Narcissa Malfoy. She was still elegant, imposing, _regal_ , and _cold,_ projecting indifference with practiced ease. Of course, Narcissa wasn’t indifferent. Hermione knew that. Her eyes were perceptive and watchful as ever:

_Watched. Heard. Remembered._

_“_ Hermione?” Narcissa repeated.

Hermione felt needles pricking at her skin. She needed another draught. This was too much for one day. Her breathes started coming quicker. She blinked her eyes ( _over a_ _n_ _d over_ ), her mouth twitched and she _itched_ her arm as subtly as she could. Narcissa’s cold gaze flickered to Hermione’s fingers, and then back to her face.

“Do you need a calming draught?” Narcissa asked tersely. Hermione blinked her eyes. There was a businesslike efficiency to Narcissa’s questions, but it was still strange to recognize that she must be concerned for Hermione if she’d suggest such a thing at nine o-clock in the morning.

“I – I’m fine Narcissa. I just woke up.”

Narcissa stared at her in silence for a moment, before she slowly nodded.

“Yes, I suppose came by a bit early. Perhaps we can reconnect later?” She said. Hermione nodded aggressively: let the witch leave, then she could down another Oxycosia, perhaps read a book, calm down before the students arrived for sorting.

“Very well then. The sorting will be done at noon, Miss Granger.” Narcissa paused, and then spoke very slowly. “All of the professors will be there.” She gave Hermione a pointed look. A moment later, Hermione connected the dots. _She_ would be there, that is, Narcissa. She was reminding Hermione to….keep her from freaking out? It would certainly embarrass Narcissa if that were the case. Hermione might’ve thought Narcissa would have liked to _watch_ her embarrass herself, but maybe she’d had enough of that for one lifetime. Hermione found that thought morbidly funny for some reason. She nodded again anyway.

_What was I nodding for, again?_

“McGonagall will probably expect you to say something as well.” Narcissa told her. Hermione nodded dumbly. This woman needed to _leave._ Narcissa eyed her suspiciously, her eyes flickering down and the back up. Hermione avoided looking directly at her. Eventually, Narcissa pursed her lips in resignation.

“Well, perhaps another time we could have a less one-sided conversation. You know your students won’t do the lecturing for you.”

Hermione flushed in embarrassment but didn’t respond. This wasn’t a good morning, but she only cared about her pride as a sort of distant, far away thing. In the moment, she just wanted Narcissa to _leave._

When the door latched behind her, Hermione sighed with relief, but it was only momentary. McGonagall wanted her to speak. She couldn’t do that: not with the entire Hogwarts staff (including Narcissa), all the students, _everyone_ watching her. But if she took more Oxycosia, she wouldn’t be in any shape to give a speech either. Hermione’s anxiety threatened to overwhelm her and she scratched her arm until it bled. She could take another half draught. Calm her anxiety, but be present enough for the speech. Maybe add a pepper-up…

* * *

Victoria Rosier tapped her fingers on the head table. The din of the student body’s gossip was irritating her more and more with every minute that passed. The Sorting should have been well underway by now, and the students were getting antsy. Not that Victoria could blame them, because so was she, and with every second that past she grew more and more annoyed because, on her very first day as a professor, Hermione Granger was _late_.

Victoria made a low, grumbling sound in her throat. Headmistress McGonagall looked calmer than she’d have expected: the woman was not one to tolerate this kind of insolence from the rest of them. Of course, the ( _Brightest Witch of Her Age!!)_ new professor _c_ ould do no wrong. Victoria glanced at Narcissa, but the witch was staring straight ahead.

_Oh she must be furious_ Victoria thought. She opened her mouth to make a cutting remark, just for her and Narcissa to hear, when one of the side doors to the great hall opened and Professor Hermione Granger strode up to the table.

Except, she wasn’t really striding, she was more…shuffling? Her hair was in her face and the woman seemed intent on not making eye contact with _anyone_. The racket from the students turned to hurried whispers, and as the brightest witch of her age sat in the chair next McGonagall she knocked over a candle that awkwardly clanged to the ground, muttering apologies the whole while. Victoria smirked and nudged Narcissa, but rather than biting sarcasm, the older witch just mumbled, “Be nice, Tori.”

What? Narcissa too? Victoria turned to look at her, looking for...a sneer? A smile? Something that indicated she found Hermione Granger’s clumsiness as delightfully embarrassing as Victoria did? but instead of a sneer on the older witch’s face Victoria saw mostly...worry? Agitation? Was Narcissa another one of these starstruck sycophants? Victoria certainly hadn’t gotten that impression, not from the venom Narcissa spat whenever the Weasley boy came up. Something else was going on here, but before Victoria could interrogate her friend, McGonagall lightly tapped a spoon against her chalice and hall quieted.

“We wish a warm welcome to all of you, returning students and those we have just met. To our returning students, I hope this year brings you evermore knowledge, wisdom, and happiness. We are all thrilled to see you return.

“To our new students, welcome, and know that we hope you will come to think of Hogwarts as our home-away-from-home in the years to come.” Minerva smiled gently at the crowd of students. In that moment, she was less stern-headmistress, more kindly grandmother. She really had gotten softer in her old age if she was trying to show the whole lot of first years how much she cared.

“Soon we will begin the Sorting. There are four houses here at Hogwarts, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. If Hogwarts is your home-away-from-home, then your house might be your family-away-from-family.

“But before we begin,” McGonagall paused and glanced at the new addition. “May I introduce the newest member of our family here at Hogwarts, Professor of Advanced Studies, Hermione Granger.”

The students began talking to one another in earnest, speaking rapidly to one another, their faces alight with excitement. Victoria fought the urge to roll her eyes. Great. Just great. _Professor of “Advanced Studies?”_ _C_ _ould there be anything more vague?_ _Is she teaching subjects more advanced than 7_ _th_ _year DADA? Not bloody likely. The_ _entire appointment_ _is probably just fucking publicity; I doubt_ _th_ _ere’s even any reason for this_ _woman_ _to be here._ _“_ _B_ _rightest_ _W_ _itch_ _of her Age,_ _”_ _my ass._ _I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Granger-myth is_ _just_ _more_ _Ministry_ _propaganda_ _to prop up the poor mudbloods._

Minerva was waiting for Granger to say something, but Victoria didn’t think the red-headed witch had noticed yet. McGonagall cleared her throat and Granger finally seemed to get the hint. She pushed the hair out of her face and stood. The chatter amongst the students quieted instantly.

“Well, hello.” Granger started. “I, well, I’m teaching a number of – runic magic and arithmancy have traditionally been theoretical, but with application they are very powerful magics. Some say, well, I’m excited to be showing you all I’ve learned. I’m Hermione Granger, in case you didn’t know. I won’t see you in my courses until your third year at least, although I may see you outside of them. It’s – what many people don’t realize, I’m sure some of them realize, but many still don’t, well, I have a story about that actually, but with Runic magic –”

Victoria was having trouble containing her laughter. Hermione was _babbling_ , it was as if she hadn’t prepared a speech at _all._ She looked more as if she was talking to herself in a mirror, rather than the entire Hogwarts student body. _Narcissa must_ _be loving watching the mudblood squirm,_ she thought, but when she turned to look at Narcissa the woman looked deathly pale.

_Well, it doesn’t look good for Hogwarts._

Eventually, Hermione seemed to remember she was still talking, blushed _ferociously_ , and abruptly sat back down.

_Did she even finish her last sentence?_ _Merlin, what a fucking mess._

Mercifully, McGonagall took back control, leaving Professor Granger to sit back down and continue wringing her hands. Professor Delacour reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. Victoria stifled a snicker and nudged Narcissa.

“Brightest witch of her age indeed.” She mumbled out of the corner of her mouth. “Even the foreigner can tell she made mincemeat of the English language.” But Narcissa didn’t chuckle, in fact she didn’t seem to be paying attention at all, much less Victoria’s commentary. Instead, Narcissa just stared at Hermione Granger with a mortified expression that straddled the line somewhere between agony and horror.

_Narcissa must be even more embarrassed of her being here than I thought._

The moment the Sorting hat began to sing, Victoria stopped paying attention. Narcissa was head of house; she’d take note of the new Slytherins. The older woman was a good head of house, no, a _great_ head of house. Victoria might no longer be a student, but having Narcissa as her head of house made her proud to be a Slytherin. It had become a place where students felt safe, nurtured, and like they could rely on their housemates and their professors alike, no matter obstacles they faced. When students were struggling in their classes, they could go to Narcissa. When they had problems at home, they could count on Narcissa. Indeed, Narcissa Black was the best thing to happen to House Slytherin in a very long time. Whereas Slughorn was eager to foster exceptional talent, Narcissa took special care with _all_ her students, and indeed the more her students struggled, the greater their burdens, the more ferocious and protective Narcissa Black became.

Hopefully the new, bumbling professor wouldn’t put too much of a damper on Narcissa’s sense of accomplishment: she deserved to be proud of her school and the work she’d done. Narcissa had poured her heart and soul into protecting her students, just like she had with Victoria when she’d needed it most. To Victoria, Narcissa occupied a precious, liminal space: some murky place in-between friend, coworker, confidante, and matriarch.

The thought made Victoria narrow her eyes at _Granger._ She _refused_ to let the “brightest witch of her age” embarrass Narcissa any further. Not while Victoria Rosier was there to put a stop to it.

* * *

“I thought it would be good to for all of our professors to meet.” Minerva said. The students and prefects had gone back to their respective quarters. Victoria glanced at the clock. _Can’t be that much longer._

“Professor Granger should need no introduction,” Minerva continued, seemingly unbothered by Granger making a fool of herself (and the entire school administration that decided to hire her) not an hour earlier. “She is the most brilliant student I’ve had and by now I’m sure that student has surpassed teacher, if she didn’t already by the time she left.” Minerva gave Granger a warm smile.

“Hermione,” She said. “Perhaps you can share some of what you’ve been working on since you left Hogwarts with us.”

“Oh sure, yes, I would love to.” Granger said. Her nervousness was still palpable, but she seemed a little bit more _present_ than she’d been at the Sorting ceremony. She wasn’t the hero that people like Longbottom and Potter would _incessantly_ praise, not by a longshot, but at least her demeanor had improved to that of a nervous, downtrodden housewife, rather than that of an escaped mental patient.

_Small victories, Victoria._

“I was working in the intersection between Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. I’ve found that a great deal of lost-magic was written down using a combination of Runes and Arithmantic equations.” Hermione flashed them all a bright smile. “Well, not _written_ per-se, but _recorded_ at least. I’m really looking forward to meeting all of you and I can’t wait to share what I’ve learned over the past seven years with the students here.”

“We are so ‘appy to have you, ‘Ermione.” said Professor Delacour. Her smile was _just blinding._

_What a sycophant._ Victoria thought. She had already braced herself in anticipation, fully prepared for Longbottom to chime in with some simpering story from the war, punctuated with unabashed groveling before the _magisterial Hermione Granger._ But then, much to her astonishment, it was Narcissa who spoke next.

“I know I speak for all of us, Ms. Granger, when I say that we are thrilled you’ve decided to teach here. Hogwarts is lucky to have you back and all of us only hope that you can be happy here.”

Victoria might have made a quip just then, mocking how dumbstruck Narcissa’s comment had left Hermione Granger, if the _Golden Girl’s_ inability to form coherent sentences wasn’t a core part of her being. Victoria would also have been more inclined to mock the new professor if she herself didn’t look equally stupid and wasn’t gaping, open-mouthed at Narcissa, like a turkey drowning in a rainstorm.

Narcissa was a kind person. Victoria knew that better than most. It was true that she exuded an elegant, detached-aloofness like any well-bred pureblood witch. Her acerbic tongue could be absolutely _devastating_ at times, often in _sinfully_ delightful ways (a fond memory of Narcissa terrorizing Victoria’s older brother came to mind), but beneath it all Narcissa’s heart was so, so, big, big and warm and ready to love. But her love wasn’t something to be given to any swine who desperately begged for her approval: Narcissa wouldn’t care so deeply for some overrated Gryffindor _mudblood_ who already had countless wizards and witches worshiping the very ground she walked on. Merlin, listening to the Prophet or one of the Ministry’s Good Ol’ Boys tell it, one would think the awkward, bumbling woman was Saint Hermione, lovechild of Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw sent to save the wizarding world from evil. Everything about it was so fucking _nauseating_. There was no way that Narcissa was that gullible.

No no no, it was impossible. This could _not_ be right.

But then, suddenly, Victoria realized that of _course_ this couldn’t be right: she was thinking about this all wrong. Narcissa was a _politician_. She survived the Dark Lord in her home for Merlin’s sake. If she could play a role for He Who Must Not Be Named, she could play a role for Minerva and her precious, rambling pet.

_Oh Narcissa you absolute fox._

Victoria grinned to herself. Whatever game Narcissa was playing she was more than welcome to continue.

_Worry not Narcissa; I see what you’re doing, and I know how to play this game too._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihi. new chapter. i intended to get farther ahead, but instead i just entirely rewrote this chapter. im still not entirely happy with it, but im a lot happier with it than i was before. this is a bit of an "in-between" chapter. the next one will have some more "rising-action" lol. anyway, thank u for reading and consider commenting bc it makes writing this much less lonely. cheers :)
> 
> p.s. next chapter will probably take longer to get out than this one. sry lol
> 
> p.p.s i rly need a beta reader if someone wants to volunteer in the comments lol

**Advanced Magics for Year Four - Professor H. Granger**

The scroll in Holly’s hands trembled as she read her class schedule. When Holly realized that _today_ was the first lecture of Advanced Magics, the first time she would see Professor Granger in her element, she felt a rush of heady emotions _(excitement? trepidation?)_ that then congealed into a dense pit of _something_ in her stomach. Now, she was unsure what she was feeling. Certainly it was true that she was looking forward to it; it would be silly to say that she wasn’t. Hermione Granger: hero, arithmancer, and perhaps the greatest muggleborn witch to ever live, was going to become her ( _mentor)_ professor. It was said that the brains of the Golden Trio wielded powerful spells that she created herself, spells known by no other witch or wizard in the world. How could Holly be anything _but_ excited for class?

Of course, Holly would freely admit that Professor Granger was not the woman she had been expecting. Holly had pictured a strong, confident, and wise woman with twinkling eyes, sharing tales of her adventures and discoveries with her students. A woman who would tell her students of ancient scrolls discovered in dark places and regale them with stories of her travels: travels that spanned one end of the wizarding world to the other.

Instead, Professor Granger was a bit...different. She was not what Holly had ( _hoped)_ expected, but that was not going to dampen Holly’s spirits. Fretting over trivialities, like her _(brilliant, heroic, renowned)_ professor’s tics or mannerisms or public-speaking ability, was for philistines and children. In fact, geniuses were often eccentric: utterly unconcerned with the petty judgments of more conventional wizards. It wasn’t Professor Granger’s fault that those eccentricities were celebrated in wizards but condemned in witches.

The more she thought about it, the angrier Holly felt. Hermione Granger was a _hero_ of a _war._ She had _earned_ her renown: not from fancy speeches or ingratiating herself to the powerful, but from _defying_ them. Hermione Granger, the brains of the golden trio, had spat in the face of the establishment and _saved_ Britain from the terror of He Who Must Not Be Named! How dare they! How dare someone judge Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age based off of –

“Bloody _bonkers,_ I’m telling you. My mum says she’s basically mental since the war.”

Holly spun around in her seat, seized by a fiery, righteous indignation, and came face to face with Sev.

“How _dare_ you, _Albus-Severus-Potter,”_ Holly demanded, emphasizing her friend’s full name because she _knew_ he hated it. “Professor Granger is a _genius_. Do you even know the first thing about genius? That was rhetorical, _y_ _ou_ of all people _obviously_ would not.”

“Neither do you Holly Tremblay.” Sev retorted.

Holly rolled her eyes. Saying _her_ full name didn’t have the same effect: “Holly Tremblay” was a lovely name, not embarrassing and stupid like “Albus-Severus.” Boys were so dumb. _“_ Hell, neither do my parents. Did you know they haven’t even _heard_ from her in nine years?”

“If you knew even the first thing about the Second Wizarding War I – ugh!”

Sev interrupted her with a _jerkoff_ motion that elicited _oh-so-bloody-uproarious_ laughter from his friends. _Absolute prat._

“It’s ridiculous that – that you would treat Professor Granger, one of your father’s _closest friends_ by the way, as if she was some – some kind of mental patient!”

“Sis,” Sev yawned ( _completely for show). “_ She _was_ a mental patient.”

“That isn’t even true; you’re making it up and everyone in this classroom can tell you’re lying.” Holly said primly. She was furious beyond reason ( _how badly she wanted to hex Sev into oblivion)_ , but Holly was a Slytherin. She didn’t sputter and shout like a Gryffindor; she was not so vain that she would employ their kind of unabashed self-righteousness to win arguments. Instead, she calmly and patiently educated, _helped_ those who disagreed with her to see the error of their ways. It was a more measured, more mature approach to conflict. So, with a great deal of effort Holly pushed down her anger and affected the most sneering, pitying voice she could muster.

“Stop trying to act flippant for your friends; you’re embarrassing yourself _Albus_. After all, what would _daddy_ say if he saw you talking about his childhood friend that way?” She winked at him.

There was a brief moment where Holly was sure that she had gone too far. A distant part of her brain mused about whether she was finally going to learn what the Cruciatus felt like. Maybe he wanted to; maybe Sev would have hexed her if they were alone. But at that moment Sev was surrounded by a crowd of friends that he was _so_ bloody _eager_ to impress. So instead, Sev forced down his anger, suppressed his visible fury, and replaced it with a familiar, irritating mask of affected boredom.

“Look Holly,” Sev finally said. “I know you’re excited to have _the_ Hermione Granger as a professor, but that doesn’t mean I’m _wrong._ ”

“Get over yourself, Sev. Anyone would excited to be taught by by the brightest witch of her age.” Holly drawled.

“Get over Hermione Granger.” Sev snapped ( _finally_ ). “She disappointed everyone who ever loved her and she’s about to disappoint all of Hogwarts.”

With a sneer, Sev regained his composure for a second time. “I guess it isn’t her fault though; the mentally ill do the best they can. I’ll concede that she doesn’t deserve our scorn though, Holly. She’s a sad, broken thing, a creature more deserving of pity than disdain.”

Holly’s eyes flashed and her body acted before her mind could catch up. She snarled at Sev and grasped her wand in her fingers. A nasty curse was on her lips when she heard a gasp from behind her and then, with sudden, debilitating horror Holly realized that nearly the entire class had been eavesdropping on her fight with Sev. Keegan Rosier and his friends were snickering. So was Fred Weasley and most of the Gryffindors ( _why on earth?_ ), although some of the lions seemed near as angry as Holly. Severus was staring at her wand with eyes as wide as saucers. Scorpius just looked _uncomfortable_. But just as Holly was about to throw caution to the wind and cast the nastiest curse she knew, the door opened and, ( _over five minutes late_ ) Professor Granger walked into the room.

Holly froze mid-motion, her wand half raised, seized by an all-encompassing terror.

_Is this what it feels like to touch a dementor?_

Holly braced for Professor Granger to…scold her? Kick her out? Yell at her? Holly didn’t even know. She had fantasized about being Professor Granger’s student so very many times, but in all those fantasies she had never imagined making such a huge mistake. She had never imagined that she would so completely _fuck up_ her _first impression_. Holly’s heart pounded, her pupils dilated, and she descended into panic.

( _Holly raised her hand to answer the most difficult question of the semester. Professor Granger gave her a knowing smirk. “Yes, Miss Tremblay?”)_

_(“You’re so mature for your age Holly. You remind me of myself when I was a student.”)_

_(“That’s absolutely brilliant, Holly. If only you had been with us during the fight against Voldemort instead of Ron. We could have used someone as clever as you.”_

_(“It’s such a rare pleasure to have a student who can keep up with me, Holly. No, not a student: a colleague.”)_

_(I think we’re past that, don’t you think? Please, call me Hermione.”)_

How would they ever be friends now? She – she would think Holly was as stupid and shortsighted as – as _Albus!_ She’d ruined her first impression. They would never be mentor and pupil, much less friends. She couldn’t come back from this.

_Is there still a Time Turner at Hogwarts? How does one get ahold of it? Is it easy to obliviate a room full of people? Oh Merlin what can I do?_

And yet, as Holly turned to face Professor Granger, prepared to deliver the most profuse, desperate, and groveling apology of her life, she realized her teacher wasn’t looking at her. In fact, she didn’t seem to notice that the students were there at all. Instead, Professor Granger was frantically flipping through scattered, loose pages of handwritten scrolls, mumbling to herself. Holly sat back down and willed her heart to slow. Sev was laughing so hard Holly thought he might start crying.

Finally, ten minutes after class was supposed to start, Professor Granger seemed to come out of her reverie. She glanced at the clock, startled, and then turned to her students. As Hermione Granger met their eyes for the first time, she faltered. The classroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. She cleared her throat and scratched her arm.

“Well, I guess we have to get started.” Professor Granger said. “This is, I’m Hermione Granger.” The woman cringed at herself.

“I’m not sure what to say. I guess you know all about me, don’t you?” She laughed ( _it was far too loud)_. A couple students laughed along, awkwardly, but Professor Granger looked grateful for it. She took a deep breathe and, without any other preface, explanation, or introduction, Professor Granger dove into the material.

“Chin up, Holly.” Sev whispered. He was _such_ an asshole, but Holly didn’t have the presence of mind to reply. She was busy watching Professor Granger.

 _Is...is she nervous?_ _She doesn’t have any reason to be nervous. Why_ _is she so weird? They don’t mention that in the histories._

“We’re going to be taking a look at forgotten magics in this course: this includes runic magics, blood magic, and other forms of warding.” Professor Granger began. “There are many types of magic which have been banned over the centuries, then unbanned, then banned again in a different country, and a lot of these techniques were lost. Thankfully, there is still so much left that we can learn from!

“But this class isn’t about the spells. Well, to an extent it’s about spells, you’re going to need to learn some of them after all, but spells in this course are just a means to an end. What’s important is the _method,_ tying these different strands together, and, ultimately, I hope that you’ll all be able to create spells of your own design by the end of this class.” Professor Granger smiled, shy and _definitely_ _nervous_ , but it looked a little less forced this time. “I really, truly hope that you all enjoy learning this as much as I have.”

Professor Granger was…unusual. Her lecture was one of the oddest Holly had heard at Hogwarts. It wasn’t _bad_ , just uneven. It was _very_ uneven. She moved quickly ( _although of course Holly could keep up; she was just worried about her classmates)._ There were only one-or-two questions; many of the students were too shy to speak up. Holly was no exception ( _because she was still shaken up from before)_.

There were moments where Professor Granger would start rambling, going off on some tangent that seemed to make sense to her, but didn’t appear very relevant to any of the students ( _although if Holly was more present she was sure she would have followed. It was her fault for not paying attention)._ These tangents spiraled out of control until Professor Granger blinked and seemed to come back to herself. Afterwards, she made an enormous spectacle out of what had been, in reality, just a few minutes of a confusing story. She apologized with a sincerity that bordered on desperation for “any confusion she might have caused” and then _insisted_ that the entire class _Deleterious_ any notes they had taken related to it.

In other, briefer moments; however, Professor Granger was _exciting_. Even though her lecture didn’t contain _any_ spellcasting, it still made Holly want _more._ The first day was an overview, a lecture focused entirely on providing students with sufficient context to _care_ about the material they were learning. Professor Granger lectured as if a tour guide through magical history: hitting all the high notes while pointing to all kinds of unexpected, interesting details along the way. Her lecture focused on explaining ancient runes and their _original_ purpose: to capture the _essence_ of spells. She weaved her way through time and across geographies: taking a detour in Ancient India with a helpful, illuminating, and surprisingly funny tale about a Wizard-King who tried to use runes to ensure that same-sex (and _only_ same-sex) partners in arranged marriages fell in love.

As Professor Granger talked more and more, she seemed to settle into herself. Her lecture segued into Arithmancy, which provided the framework for _understanding_ the spells that runes managed to capture. That was why Professor Granger was only teaching fourth years and above: her class required at least some basic exposure to both Arithmancy and ancient runes. The longer the lecture went, the more captivated Holly became. Professor Granger’s voice was stronger, her enthusiasm palpable, and Holly was almost engrossed enough to forget that she was in _school_ (but not so engrossed that she forgot to stick her tongue out at Sev)

“Well, I think that’s a good enough stopping point for today.” Professor Granger said. “Please review the first three chapters of Modern Arithmancy – that was your text last year, _qui? –_ as well as chapter eight of Modern Arithmancy before next lesson: we’ll be talking primarily reviewing and expanding on the basics of established Arithmantic theory for the rest of this week.” The class groaned, but that seemed to brighten Professor Granger up. “Oh no, it’s really not so dreadful as you might imagine, and without it you won’t be able to make heads of tails of what’s coming next, so it really will be worth it.” She smiled, this time warm and sincere. “I promise.”

Holly met Professor Granger’s eyes and beamed: she couldn’t wait for the next lecture. Maybe Professor Granger was a bit odd, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t just as brilliant as Holly had imagined. She had been right after all: she had been right and Sev had been –

“Can you tell us about the war, Professor Granger?” Sev asked.

Holly’s elation was brought to a sudden, screeching halt. Professor Granger broke Holly’s gaze and stared at the boy next-to-her as if he had sprouted an extra head from his torso. Of course, Sev carried on as if nothing was amiss.

“Well, everyone says that You-Know-Who would have won if not for you. My mum has always said so. My dad too.” Sev continued in the same tone that he used with Holly, light and teasing and slightly-mocking.

Professor Granger seemed not to notice. She looked pale, unusually pale, and tried to smile. Somehow, it came out looking all wrong, an uncomfortable grimance moreso than the reassuring smile of a mentor.Holly cringed.

“I’m, well, the war, I’m not the hero of the story. That was the boy-who-lived – Harry was always – there are plenty of books I think that talk about that. Maybe you can start there?”

“Which one?”

“Pardon?”

“Which one would you recommend?”

“Oh.” Professor Granger laughed, but it was high and sharp and unnatural. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t really read books like that.”

Without saying another word, Professor Granger walked to the door, opened it, and then walked right past the fifth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws gathered outside for her next course. Holly stared dumbly at the door, watching fifth years awkwardly trying to decide whether or not the previous class was finished.

“I guess that’s how they say ‘class dismissed’ in the loony bin.” Sev said, smirking. “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, Holly.”

* * *

_“_ It is lovely to see you Hermione, you look lovely _ma cherie”_ Fleur kissed her cheek and Hermione blushed. “I am so sorry I could not see you before the Sorting; I was stuck in Marseille after a mix-up. Some _fils de pute_ accused me of practicing dark magic.” Fleur shot Hermione a mischievous smile, a smile that seemed to say the two of them were sharing a secret. “A very foolish man to keep from my precious ‘Ermione, _qui?”_

Hermione blushed for the third time in as many minutes and stumbled over her words, as she always seemed to do these days.

‘ _These days’ have been quite a few days by now though, haven’t they?_ She thought dimly, but the thought was far from the forefront of her mind: it was distant, far away, and lurking amid other things best left unacknowledged. Fleur was here, and that was something special.

Many people had cared, or tried to care, for Hermione in their own way. Harry and Ginny had an earnest, fumbling goodness. Molly preferred to pretend that nothing was wrong and nothing had changed. Ron embraced tough love ( _but it was still love_ ). Yet no matter the form or extent of their ministrations, the end was always same: cruel words, ugly tears, and Hermione trusting her friends a little bit less than before. That is, everyone except for Fleur. Fleur had cared for her at her worst, after the Manor and after the war, when she been truly...difficult. But the Veela was always patient with her, far more patient than one would think her fiery temper would allow.

Part of that was because Fleur didn’t expect so bloody _much_ of her. Harry tried – the poor, lovely boy tried so hard – but it was as if he expected her to talk about Bella and the Manor ( _as if that would help_ ), cry it out ( _would it ever end?)_ , and then turn back into the old Hermione Granger he used to know. It felt like Harry was playing a waiting game: biding his time until the bossy, naive, charismatic, and brilliant woman he had known all his life reappeared. As if all it took was a conversation or two and then the old Hermione, the Hermione who was _not_ at-risk of having a mental breakdown while shopping for new robes, would be back for good. She didn’t think she could bear to be there when he finally realized that girl was gone forever.

There was a time not-long after the war that Hermione viewed her past with a sort of forlorn longing, her heart breaking with the sense of loss she felt for the woman she’d been. Yet with every year that went by, every sad puppy-dog look from Harry, every time Molly scurried away to get more food that no one wanted, or every time Ron’s hand would creep up her thigh and he’d turn to her expectantly, she felt less longing and more loathing. After all, she wouldn’t be the broken, miserable, and unlovable woman she was today if the woman she used to be wasn’t such a fucking fool.

“’Ermione?”

Hermione blinked.

“’Ave you seen Harry and Ginny yet?”

“Your accent has gotten a lot better.” Hermione blurted out. She cringed at herself, but Fleur just smiled. “ _Qui_ , I ‘ave been trying. I think I make less mistakes than before, _yes?”_ Fleur winked.

“Well, you sound as lovely as always.” Hermione said shyly. “No, I have not seen Harry. I came in the night before I started classes. I’m not sure McGonagall really believed it was me she was owling with until yesterday.” Hermione forced a small chuckle.

“Well, he will be so ‘appy to see you, ‘Ermione.” She insisted. “All of your friends are happy to see you. Now, how was your first day of classes?”

Hermione groaned. “I was a complete mess, Fleur. I babbled _so much_ , if any of them managed to learn anything from my lectures I’d be surprised. I did the best with the 6th and 7th year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.” Hermione frowned. “The Gryffindors seem even less fond of me than the Slytherins, to be quite honest. I didn’t expect that.”

Fleur scowled. “What did zees students do? I will hex them like Death Eaters if they think –“

Hermione laughed, warm and sincere. The French witch could be so protective when defending her; it made Hermione’s heart overflow with affection. It made her feel _safe_.

“They didn’t _do_ anything Fleur, they pretended like everything was normal while I was talking to myself, for Merlin’s sake. The only problem was a boy at the end who asked me about the war.”

“ _What?_ " Fleur said sharply. She wasn’t yelling; she knew better than to do that around Hermione, but she had raised her voice. “Who was he? Was he one of mine?”

“I don’t know who he was. He seemed to sit with the Slytherins but –”

“You did not have the students introduce themselves?”

Hermione let out an exaggerated wail of despair and cradled her head in her hands, fingers covering her eyes.

“I didn’t even think about that! I tried to take a moment to gather my thoughts, but then I realized we were already ten minutes into class and I just panicked and dove into the lecture. Oh Merlin, what – they must think their teacher is a complete nutter.”

Hermione’s face was flushed red. Part of her wanted to the floor to reach up and swallow her whole. Another part of her, however, was thrilled to hear Fleur’s affectionate, soft chuckles filling the room. It felt good to make Fleur laugh, even if it was at her own expense. Something about it satisfied a craving Hermione didn’t even know she had: a craving for normalcy, for relationships that weren’t just strong, but were also _easy_. That wonderful, carefree laugh felt like proof: proof that things between them didn’t always have to be so painful and heavy. Fleur didn’t always need to rescue Hermione from another crisis. Sometimes, when Hermione was acting silly, Fleur could just have a lighthearted laugh at her expense. Maybe someday being with Hermione could be fun for Fleur, instead of a burden.

_What I wouldn’t give to hear that laugh every day of my life._

Hermione’s lips curled upward and she peaked through her fingers. The French witch’s beautiful, blue eyes were twinkling.

“You really are going to be quite the absent-minded professor, _qui_?” Fleur crossed her arms and adopted a mock-stern expression. “Do have them introduce themselves at the beginning of next class though, ‘Ermione. Narcissa will deal with zis nosy snake: I am sure of it.”

Hermione smiled.

“He’s fine, Fleur. I doubt it was intentional. Really, it’s like I said, there was a group of Gryffindors that was much worse. It felt as if they were judging me.” Hermione scratched her arm.

“Judging you?” Fleur inquired.

“ _Some_ of them were judging me.” Hermione amended. “One of them made a show of yawning after one of my especially-nonsensical tangents. But maybe I’m being oversensitive. I do have that tendency, these days.”

_These decades._

Fleur looked thoughtful. Hermione sipped her wine. It was a comfortable silence. Silences were always comfortable with Fleur.

“It’s just surprising that I felt that hostility from Gryffindors.” Hermione added. “I would have expected it from the Slytherins, but definitely not the Gryffindors.”

“The Weasel plays a part with the Gryffindors.” Fleur said slowly. Her face contorted into a sneer. “Tag-alongs for aspiring aurors, visits to the dueling club: he is always showing off in front of the students like ze silly boy he is.”

“That’s inconvenient. He still talks about me?”

Fleur shrugged. “I do not follow him around, but I hear things from my students, ze way he talks about his ‘lost love’ who ‘left him when he needed her most’.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. That stupid, petty – _boy!_

_How dare he accuse me of abandoning him! How dare he accuse anyone of abandoning him? Arrogance. Projection. What is wrong with him!_

_But it’s true, isn’t it? He abandoned you, and you abandoned him. Fair is fair, right?_

“I’ve never aired my complaints about Ron,” Hermione said, slumping down in her chair. “Why can’t he afford me the same courtesy? I thought he was at least better than that.”

Fleur’s features softened, then shifted to a tired resignation. “I try to correct them, you know. But it is not easy. It helps that I fought in the war, and they respect me as head of house, but I am not the Chosen’s Most Loyal. My words do not carry the same weight.” Hermione snorted. Fleur smiled grimly. “And there is much I cannot say. Students, they do not know much about the Weasel, and Bill says that the students’ adoration is good for him. He thinks it’s helping him... _heal._ ”

The mention of Bill was like a wet blanket cast over Hermione’s mood. Fleur had gone quiet. The veela’s wedding ring seemed as if it was mocking Hermione, like it was a cruel, cosmic joke played at her expense.

“Well,” Hermione’s voice cracked. “I’m sure Bill is looking out for his brother’s best interests.”

“I do not let them spread lies, ‘Ermione. Please believe me.” Fleur insisted. “I am only – I do not ruin the students’ love of the boy for his brother’s sake.”

“For your husband’s sake.”

The French witch swallowed. “For my husband’s sake.”

Fleur’s hand tentatively reached for Hermione, and even now, over a decade later, she was hesitant, careful, and _asking_ as she placed it next to Hermione’s own. The red haired witch choked back a sob and took Fleur’s hand in her own. The moment was _done_ , as if there was nothing more to be said. And maybe there wasn’t. Maybe all this complexity, all this turmoil, was something Hermione had imagined. Maybe the awkwardness that she felt when discussing Bill was only on one side. She didn’t know and she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

“So, do not think I have forgotten about earlier, _yes?_ ” Fleur said. “Why have you not seen Harry and Ginny? Do you have plans with them yet? They still miss you, I know zis. They miss you terribly.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to him Fleur.” Hermione started. “I don’t even know that he wants to see me.”

Fleur waved her hand in dismissal. “Please, I’m sure you received a response to every letter before you even put down your quill.”

 _He never got any letters, Fleur._ Hermione _ached_ to confess. _It was only you._

But some truths were best left unspoken. Fleur was many things, but she was no fool. She might have the same misgivings about Hermione that Ron once had, the same misgivings that eventually broke him. The worst part was that Fleur would be _right_ to have them. But Hermione was not prepared to hear that, not now, perhaps not ever. Hermione refused to let the Veela carry more of her burden ( _she carries enough_ ).

Worse yet, Fleur might ask _why_ – _why had she not sent Harry a single letter? –_ and those truths were darker still. How do you explain that your best friend, your _brother_ in all but blood, doesn’t love you anymore? Is it possible without practically _begging_ for pity? Would Fleur believe that Hermione had discovered that fact by accident? Would Fleur take her word for it or would she assume this was just another way for Hermione to hurt herself? Yes, some truths were definitely best left unsaid. Hermione could not bear to lose Fleur and she could not bear for Fleur’s opinion of her to sink any closer to _pity_.

Hermione had once found this so much easier, talking to people, asking them about their feelings and asking _directly_. Now, no matter how cathartic it might be, opening up was too much of a struggle. Fleur gave her time though; she was content to wait for Hermione to catch up.

“I think,” Hermione started slowly. “I think that I’m scared. I’m scared that he’ll scold me.” Fleur’s stared at Hermione in rapt attention. Hermione itched her forearm. “James is practically grown. Even Albus is here, probably halfway finished with his time at Hogwarts by now, and he’s never known his own Godmother.” She let out a bitter laugh as her shoulders slumped. “I’ve missed so much of their lives, of everyone’s lives, and those children will never love me like they might’ve if I’d been there for their childhoods.”

Fleur’s hand tentatively reached for Hermione, and even now, over a decade later, she was hesitant, careful, and _asking_ as she placed it next to Hermione’s own. The red haired witch choked back a sob and took Fleur’s hand in her own.

“’Ermione,” Fleur’s other hand – again, so hesitant and careful and _asking permission_ in the way it moved – pushed a strand of hair behind Hermione’s ear and lingered there, a single finger gently scratching her neck. “You know that it would be good for you, you and Harry, _qui?_ "

This time Hermione didn’t bother to choke back her sob, nor the one after, nor the one after that, and all the while Fleur’s hand squeezed hers tightly, fingers intertwined and palm pressed against palm.

_So much for ‘easy’._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weird. i really didn't expect to get this one out this quickly. the pace will probably have to slow down eventually, but, i guess not yet lol. hope u guys dig it. 
> 
> btw, it would rly be suuuuper helpful to have a beta reader soooo if u wanna be one pls lmk ok? i edit things SO much before i post them that its like, impossible to tell whether or not something makes sense or comes off like i want it to by the time im getting ready to actually post the chapter lol.
> 
> anyway, thank u to everyone who has commented so far. i've been having a really good time writing this fic so far bc of u guys like, u know, participating in it w/ me lol. 
> 
> ok uhhh that's all bye

**Detention - Professor Black**

Morticia Tremblay did a wonderful job raising her daughter. She was adorable, but not a pushover, a bit of a know-it-all, but earnest and hardworking enough to make up for it. Something about the girl was so _fiery_ yet simultaneously _innocent_ that Narcissa couldn’t help smiling at her sometimes, even against her own will. She _liked_ Holly, her flaws as much as her virtues.

Unfortunately, Narcissa’s fondness for the girl had left her completely unprepared for how difficult Holly could be outside of the classroom.

“What _reason_ could I have to hex _Albus_?” Holly snapped. Narcissa was already sick of the back and forth. She could feel the slow build of a tension headache, forming itself behind her eyes and dully pulsing with each moment. She started to massage her head, gently pressing circles into her temples with her index fingers.

“I have _no idea_ Holly. It isn’t _like_ you at all. But even if I wouldn’t expect it there are _three_ different students who have said – either to me directly or to one of their peers – that you drew your wand on _Albus Severus Potter_.”

“Maybe they were lying.”

“Maybe. Were they?”

* * *

Albus Severus Potter was the apotheosis of slick, unconcerned, teenage indifference. He possessed a placidity and arrogance beyond his years that came from knowing the weight of his father’s name ( _was Draco like that?_ ). There was nothing that irritated Narcissa more than _children_ trying to patronize her.

_Is this all for show? Or is he really so confident?_

“I only need your version of events, Mr. Potter.”

Albus leaned back in his chair like it was _his_ office, rather than hers. _He really is a little shit_. “Are you talking to her too?”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps. Eventually.”

* * *

“Holly, just tell me _something_. Your entire class is not conspiring against you. _I’m_ not conspiring against you. If Professor Granger didn’t say anything to Headmistress McGonagall, there’s no reason that I should. But I _do_ need to know what in the world _happened!_ ”

Holly shifted her body under Narcissa’s steely glare. She wouldn’t answer. Narcissa already knew she wouldn’t answer, except with more half-denials. But it was a good question, one that she needed to _know_. It did not make sense that Holly Tremblay, a smart, bookish, confident and _very_ well-bred Slytherin would pull her wand on Albus Severus Potter. The two students were even friends as far as she knew: Holly had spent an entire summer with the Potters one – or was it two? – years ago. And even if they _did_ hate each other, Holly was far too Slytherin for such a brash display. Were they dating? That might explain _some_ of it, but in other ways it was still confusing. Holly wouldn’t hex the brat in the middle of Ms. Granger’s class. That wasn’t the way in which she lashed out. It was only made stranger by the fact that Narcissa had heard about it through other _students_ , not Ms. Granger herself.

_Well, maybe that isn’t that strange after all._

“Why would you trust the word of some students over the word of Professor Granger?” Holly said. _Is the damn girl a legilimens?_ If that wasn’t unsettling enough on its own, Narcissa got the distinct feeling that Holly was accusing her of something.

Rather than respond, she just smiled blandly.

“Professor Granger hasn’t said that you _didn’t_ draw your wand either, Ms. Tremblay. It would just be nice to get your side of the story.”

* * *

“Did Holly really pull her wand on you?”

Albus shrugged.Narcissa loved her house, but trying to discipline Slytherin children made her want to scream.

“You’re not in trouble, Mr. Potter.” Narcissa said flatly, trying to quell her bubbling anger. _Assuming he cares about that._ “Holly isn’t in trouble either. I just want to understand what’s going on.”

Albus shrugged. _Again_. “People start rumors all the time, especially since I’m ‘Mr. Potter.’ I don’t know why I need to get interrogated over it. The only reason that I’m sitting in detention right now because my dad’s famous – and a hero of course – and it makes _me_ a target of gossip.” Narcissa felt a sudden urge to wipe the cocky, sardonic smirk right off Albus’s face. “I don’t blame the students, they’re just kids after all,” _unlike Albus-Severus Potter, of course_ “but I usually expect teachers to be more discerning.”

_Absolutely shameless._

There was something strange about watching someone lie to you when you _know_ that they’re lying. For most people, it can be disorienting. It can even introduce a sliver of doubt, make one wonder whether or not they’re wrong, even with overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Narcissa, however, was not just anyone. She was not only a Slytherin, but a Black, and then a Malfoy. The families of blood supremacists and later, the Death Eaters, that had shaped Slytherin were trained in occlumency from the day their magic manifested. However, it was not only training in occlumency, but also their _culture_. There was a consistent mantra in most, old, pure-blood families:

_Don’t talk._

_You know nothing._

_They will not help you._

The Potters were not blood supremacists. For the most part, the Potters were not even Slytherins. Albus Potter was a young, clever boy who picked up on the social cues of his house and mimicked them, but it wasn’t _in_ him, it wasn’t in his bones. Narcissa knew there must be a way she could get him to talk, to _push_ him in a way that Tremblay would likely scoff at. As it so happened, Narcissa had just the idea.

“Both you and Holly intend to try out for the dueling club this year..” Narcissa said. She let the statement just _hang_ for a moment. There was a chance that it could backfire, that the boy could laugh in her face, but Narcissa doubted it. The implied threat might seem trivial to an outsider, it was only _class_ after all, but Albus had given away too much. The arrogance he projected, the condescending remark invoking his father, they were all clues: clues which made Narcissa suspect Albus was not so unique and disaffected as he pretended. Perhaps instead he was just an ordinary ( _spoiled_ ) boy who idolized his father and dreamed of being just as deserving of renown on his own merits. Perhaps he was _exactly_ the kind of boy who would balk at the suggestion that he might fall behind his classmates in dueling ability. Albus pursed his lips and shifted his posture. _Perfect._

“This conversation doesn’t need to go beyond this room, Albus.” Narcissa said kindly. “No one else will know.” _Outside Slytherin, anyway._ “I only need to know why things got so volatile, for your own safety and Holly’s. If I don’t, then I can’t in good conscience put you two in a classroom where you’ll be casting dangerous spells at each other.”

The boy’s slick facade of apathy cracked – just a bit – and he frowned. Narcissa smiled.

_Hook, line, and sinker._

* * *

Perhaps it was time to try a different tact.

“Holly,” Narcissa said, willing her headache away. “Students are inclined towards exaggeration; I know that as well as anyone. Perhaps you never removed your wand from its holster: after all, Professor Granger hasn’t said anything about it.”

Holly squinted at Narcissa. _Suspicious girl:_ _she_ _really is_ _a Tremblay._

“There’s nothing wrong with getting angry at a classmate,” _though there is a great deal wrong with hexing them, you impetuous girl._ “What were you fighting about?”

Holly crossed her arms. “He’s a selfish prat, that’s why.” A smile tugged at Narcissa’s lips. She pushed it back down.

“What makes him a selfish prat?”

“He doesn’t treat situations, very serious situations by-the-way, with the respect they deserve. He has no – no compassion! He would make a terrible auror.”

_It sounds like he would fit right in, Ms. Tremblay._

“But what did he _do_?”

Holly pursed her lips.

“Holly, I know what it is to grow up pureblood, to live in Slytherin. But you aren’t talking to headmistress McGonagall right now. You’re talking to a Black. You _know_ me Holly, have I _ever_ betrayed a students’ trust?”

_I’m so close. She’s almost there._

“Besides,” Narcissa continued. “Even if Professor Granger were to want to punish you, she isn’t about to cross me.” Narcissa flashed her most wicked smile. _Not that she’s about to cross anyone at all, these days._

Immediately, Narcissa realized it was the wrong thing to say. Holly’s walls were back up: her narrowed eyes, furrowed brow, defensive posture, all of it. Narcissa was _sure_ that Holly was about to open up, to _talk_ to her. And yet...

_What did you do, Cissy?_

* * *

“She really did it over _nothing_ ; she’s obsessed with Professor Granger.” Albus sneered. Narcissa’s fingers stilled, halfway to gripping her teacup.

“Oh?” Narcissa said. She willed her voice to steady. _You’re Narcissa Black. Holly’s thoughts on Ms. Granger are of no consequence._

“She thinks Granger’s some sort of _hero_.” Albus laughed. “As if her being a teacher’s pet and ordering my dad around makes her special.”

_“Don’t look, Draco. Please, don’t look. Get our boy **away** from here Lucius.” _

_“Mom.”_

_“Don’t fucking look, Draco. Go with your father.”_

_Watching. Waiting. Waiting. Watching._

_What is this fool boy thinking?_

“Does she now?” Narcissa placated. “Holly does seem like a naive girl.”

“She’s like a _child_ , she cannot stop bloody _talking_ about her! 'Professor Granger this, Professor Granger that.' It’s not like _Professor Granger_ beat Voldemort; that was my dad.” Narcissa’s hand twitched. “And then after the war – you know people _needed_ her, people who thought they were her friends and she just left them!”

_“Potter was spotted halfway across the country.”_

_“Aren’t they friends? Aren’t they coming for her?” Narcissa screeched. Her grip on her own sanity felt tenuous, as if she was on the verge of hysteria and only hanging on by a thread. Lucius just shrugged._

_“Obviously not. It’s not as if they could break her out, not now that the Dark Lord has his claws in her as well. Just forget about the girl; I doubt much of her is even left.”_

_“How can I forget about her when I can **hear** her, Lucius? Whenever Bella goes down there, or her friends, whether Imperio or – whatever curses they cast I **hear** them Lucius.” _

_Lucius cocked an eyebrow._

_“Your sister is a twisted, broken woman; she isn’t your responsibility. I don’t pretend to approve of her methods; I know what she does with her pets and it’s...difficult to stomach. But that isn’t on you, love. She does what she wants. ” Lucius kissed her cheek and then paused, as if he was considering something else for the first time. “And really now, it’s just a mudblood, Cissy.”_

Narcissa saw red.

“Professor Black?”

“It’s strange for a Potter – one who has never even lived through a war, much less fought in one – to sound so _defensive_ , to slander a member of the Golden Trio with such vitriol. Is this what your father says about Professor Granger?”

_Don’t bite his head off. Give him time._

Albus snorted. “He barely talks about her at all. I think she just makes him sad.”

“On that we’re agreed.” Narcissa murmured.

“What?”

_He’s just an ignorant little prat, not a sadist. Oh Merlin, is this really what Draco was like?_

“You have a very childish view of the war, Mr. Potter.”

Albus’s brow furrowed (in confusion? irritation?) but Narcissa pressed on before he could reply.

“There were many people involved in the war, including Professor Granger. Perhaps Hogwarts should offer a course on it, since clearly your father’s silly stories have left you _greatly_ misinformed.”

The boys mouth gaped and Narcissa felt a pang of smug, slightly-guilty satisfaction.

_Holly really was spot-on, wasn’t she?_

The boy started to speak but trailed off, wilting underneath Narcissa’s gaze.

 _I suppose he’s not eager to speak with me anymore._ She mused. Albus looked like a sullen child.

“So Holly was...defending the honor of Professor Granger?”

Albus looked away. Narcissa frowned.

“One would expect that of Harry Potter’s son; it’s quite strange that it fell to a Tremblay. What would your father say?”

The boy looked awkward. Part of Narcissa’s mind told her to leave it alone. She had said more than enough; she had made her point. After all, it would be unfair to belabor the point any further, he was still only a child.

_So was she._

“The Potter name really doesn’t carry the respect it used to." Narcissa said, her voice dripping with disdain. "I suppose that it’s for good reason, if they've taken to slandering their oldest, most loyal friends.”

Narcissa felt a guilty thrill from watching the Potter boy grind his teeth together, sullen and simmering, trying his best to not say something he’d regret. Narcissa smirked. Potter glared.

_Maybe so am I._

* * *

Narcissa’s office was in perfect order. Decanters neatly lined her shelves, separated by shape and ordered by size. Textbooks were divided by category and ordered alphabetically. It was clean, but cleanliness alone was _pedestrian_. No, what made a space so quintessentially _Narcissa_ was that everything had a proper place. If something wasn’t in its proper place, then something was _wrong_.

Whenever someone knocked on her door, Narcissa held her breathe. She was not...made for rambunctious children carelessly (and indignantly) waving their poorly-graded papers around, or traumatized students crying into her skirts over their cruel parents or bullies’ torments. Narcissa welcomed them with open arms regardless; she was committed to supporting them, to doing _good_ , but it did not come naturally to her. And so, on a day like today, Narcissa was especially relieved to see that it was only Victoria Rosier who had come to visit.

“Tori,” Narcissa shook her head to clear it. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Cissy,” Victoria started. Her face morphed into a look of genuine concern. “You look stressed.”

She did. Narcissa was always put together, her hair and clothes magicked to perfection, but Victoria had known her a very long time. It was the little details: details Narcissa was normally oh-so-careful to deal with, a rumple here, a touch of smeared mascara there, and deep, dark, bags hanging under bloodshot eyes that just couldn’t be entirely hidden. Victoria knew that something was on her mind.

“I just finished interrogating two students. They were acting like I was from the Ministry,” Narcissa drawled. “Neither of them were even in trouble and they _still_ were reluctant to tell me anything. I need to find some more answers before _Weasley_ gets here for the start of Dueling Club.”

“Do you mean Mr. Granger?” Victoria teased. Narcissa rolled her eyes.

“They divorced a decade ago.”

“Star-crossed lovers, separated by time.”

Narcissa sneered. “Brilliance and the Brute. I can’t imagine any couple who deserves the other less.”

Victoria chuckled, then stopped as a strange look passed over her face. Narcissa didn’t think about it a great deal. Victoria had always been a cynical woman, even as a girl. It was part of why Narcissa loved her.

“Oh? You wouldn’t relish saddling Weasley with looking after her? Can you imagine him putting on his show of bravado for teenagers only to have his whole performance fucked by Hermione Granger’s babbling?”

Narcissa laughed despite herself. It _was_ a funny thought, but she also felt something else, twisting in her gut. _Unease? Or guilt?_ She contemplated contradicting Victoria, telling her – seriously – that she shouldn’t talk about Hermione in that way.

“Add that to the ever-expanding list of Ms. Granger’s heroics,” she said instead. “keeping sixth and seventh year girls far, far away from Ron Weasley.”

“Well well, I have underestimated the achievements of the _brightest witch of her age_ for the last time.” Victoria gave her a toothy grin. “She truly is magnificent, the most accomplished nutcase in all of Britain.”

“Don’t say that.” Narcissa snapped. Victoria looked at her wide-eyed. Narcissa flushed. Victoria hesitated, then spoke in a slow, questioning tone.

“Narcissa, do you-”

“It’s unbecoming for a Professor.” Narcissa interrupted. She couldn’t go down this line of questioning. Victoria wouldn’t – couldn’t – understand. Narcissa’s choices were her own burden to bear. The price she paid was small (too small) after all: periodic nights spent tossing and turning, soaking her sheets with sweat while guilt-ridden memories plagued her conscience. It would be selfish to share it with another, to let another lighten the load. The memories weren’t even hers to share in the first place, but more than that she couldn’t share them with _Victoria_.

If it was anyone else, would it be such a crime to tell another soul? After all, they were Narcissa’s memories too. What reason was there to hold on so vehemently to – to pointless guilt. Maybe it would be _good_ to let go, to let someone help her navigate this strange, new normal, where Hermione Granger taught at Hogwarts. No, those were minor qualms, what truly scared Narcissa was that Victoria may not _care,_ that she would try to assuage Narcissa’s guilt ( _it was Bella and her cronies, not you Narcissa_ ) by disregarding her victim. Narcissa knew that Victoria loved her, but Victoria was also a snooty, uptight, pureblood. Narcissa couldn’t risk it, sharing a secret that wasn’t hers in the first place when Victoria might dismiss Narcissa’s guilt with flippant remark or a wave of her hand. _Really now, it’s just a mudblood, Cissy._ That would not be – that would not be something that Narcissa could handle with grace, even with a friend as old and precious to her as Victoria.

“Be careful of what others think: especially when we’re both pureblood and Slytherin and she’s the brightest muggleborn of her age. We are held to a higher standard.”

Narcissa held her breathe. Victoria stared dumbstruck another moment. _Did I lay it on too thick? I sound like a craz – I sound unreasonable._

Then, slowly, Victoria nodded. “Of course, it _would_ be unbecoming for a professor. What are the students saying?”

“Pardon me?” _Did she really just drop it?_

Victoria grinned. “I heard you interrogated Holly Tremblay and Severus Potter. Tell me, was Sev defending his _dear_ father’s friend?”

Narcissa finally let out the breathe she had been holding.

“Surprisingly, it was the opposite. Albus is apparently not fond of Ms. Granger. He’s somehow gotten it into his head that she wronged his family by disappearing for the past decade.” She rolled her eyes.

“Sev Potter? Really now? I did not see that coming. The way that family talks about her service in the war is nauseating.”

Narcissa sighed, determined to ignore the quip. “I worry about him. He’s a popular boy and he can be rather...vicious.” she hesitated, unsure of how much to say. _Even if Tori isn’t sympathetic, she should understand a little._ “The students might be too starstruck to ask about the war right now, but that will change. I worry how Ms. Granger will react if they...push.”

Victoria furrowed her brow. “She’s that bad? Really?”

“If he starts antagonizing Ms. Granger, especially given his heritage, I worry it could end with her leaving us prematurely.”

“Oh.” Victoria froze, as if this information was casting Hermione in a new light, one she hadn’t considered before.

 _Small victories. I hope it’s enough,_ Narcissa thought. In that moment, she decided to take a risk.

“Do you think you could have a chat with him, Tori? He’s in your class, isn’t he?”

There was another moment like before, one where Narcissa was sure that Victoria was _thinking_ about something. Suddenly, the younger witch grinned, wide and eager and warm. “He’s in my class. Not one of the best, but _very_ eager. He looks up to me, maybe even has a little crush. Of _course_ I can, Cissy. I’ll make sure to talk to him.” Victoria _winked_ at her.

Narcissa stared. _That_ was surprising. She had expected that getting Victoria to mentor a young student, especially to get a student to stop bullying Hermione Granger (who Tori seemed as if she had already developed a distaste for) would be like pulling teeth. The quick and amiable agreement was a welcome relief; it put Narcissa at ease.

_We can keep this from escalating any farther. Thank Merlin for Tori._

“Thank you, Tori. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Victoria squeezed her hand. “I’ve got your back, Cissy: I promise.”

* * *

Of all Sev’s classes, DADA was easily his best. He suspected this had something to do with how...appealing he found his professor. It might’ve been the long, raven black hair, hanging perfectly flat and heavy on the sides of her face, or possibly the blunt, edgy bangs that fell just above her eyebrows, or the cat-eye glasses and too-red lips that fit _so_ perfectly with her aesthetic. Or perhaps it was how imposing she looked; she was as tall as Sev in heels. Still, if Sev was being honest with himself, it wasn’t _just_ that his teacher was hot. Victoria Rosier had a sneer that could silence the most unruly student mid-sentence. She was similar to Professor Black in that regard, but whereas Professor Black was cold and understated Professor Rosier was all sharp edges and snide barbs. She wasn’t just beautiful, brilliant, and a little _dark_ , she was also bloody _cool_.

Moreover, Professor Black had turned on him, mocking his _father who saved Britain_ just the day before. Professor Rosier was sarcastic and biting, but she had never belittled Sev like that (only others). The potions professor had made him feel like he was some – some sort of sycophant! As if he was just a lapdog for his father, no different than Holly with Professor Granger. It made him fucking _furious_. How _dare_ she? Worse yet, he had frozen up. Severus Potter, who always had a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, had been blindsided. Dumbstruck. He could only take comfort in the fact that none of his friends had been there. _Or that bitch, Holly. I can’t believe we used to be friends._

Because of this, when Professor Rosier asked him if he had time to stay after class with her, Sev was more than eager to oblige. Professor Black might have hurt his pride, but nothing soothed a bruised ego like spending alone time with the beautiful Professor Rosier (and treating it with appropriate bravado). He cheekily winked at Katy as she left – she had been making fun of his chances with Professor Rosier since the middle of year three. _Look who’s laughing now Katy._ Sev hadn’t been sure exactly what he had expected when Professor Rosier asked to speak with him in private ( _she was far too cynical to ask for an autograph from his father or uncle_ ), but he certainly hadn’t expected her to solicit his opinions about Professor _Granger_.

Something about the topic made Sev cringe: Professor Rosier associated him with that awkward, babbling nutcase. It was unjust, wrong, and it made him even angrier: he was a Potter (and proud!) but that was no reason for him to be associated with every delinquent his father had taken pity on over the years. Just because Hermione Granger had followed around Harry Potter (for protection from bullying? fame? Sev had his suspicions but he couldn’t be sure) for a few years didn’t mean she had any right to taint his family’s legacy. She hadn’t even stayed in Britain after the war. It didn’t matter how little she participated in the actual fighting – Sev could forgive that, easily – but even after his uncle and father saved Britain from a madman, she couldn’t stay and _support_ them in the aftermath. Whenever Uncle Ron had a few too many drinks and the conversation drifted to Professor Granger, the Golden Weasley couldn’t hide his pain. It made Sev’s chest tight to think about. It was unforgivable.

_I wonder if Professor Rosier has ever met Uncle Ron. Even **she** would find him impressive. They might hit it off; maybe it would balance out some of the damage that Granger woman has done to my reputation. _

“So she really just ran out of the classroom?” Professor Rosier said, incredulous. Sev smirked and his heart beat a little faster. _I have her complete attention._ _It’s every bit as intoxicating as I imagined._

“All I had to do was ask her to talk about the war.” Sev laughed. “She can’t even _hear_ about it. If something that small can set her off, I can only wonder if she was really all that involved in the war. Maybe she just helped finish my dad’s homework while he and Uncle Ron were off fighting the battles that saved Britain.”

“Mhm – I’m sure he was very heroic – this is really quite unprofessional behavior from Ms. Granger, Severus.” Victoria smiled like a predator circling its prey. “I can only imagine how she would react if students dug a little deeper.”

Sev nodded eagerly. He wasn’t entirely sure where Professor Rosier was going, but he wanted her to look at him like she had before. She seemed to be waiting for something, but Sev wasn’t sure _what_. For a moment her smile faltered, but by the time Sev blinked it was back in place, every bit as alluring as before.

“It would be best to avoid certain topics in the future. Otherwise Hermione Granger might be convinced to cut short her tenure here.” Victoria’s eyes twinkled. Sev’s eyes widened. _Oh. Oh!_

“Of – Of course.”

“Maybe your parents would know what topics you should avoid in her class? I’m sure you could also convince your peers to steer clear of certain subjects.”

Sev felt a giddy sort of glee bubble up inside of him, dissipating the rage he had been nursing since he met with Professor Black. This wasn’t just an opportunity to make a clever, sarcastic remark. It was a chance to _prove her wrong_. After everything Professor Black said or implied about his father, how would she respond if Professor Granger was driven out of Hogwarts by nothing more than some curious students? Would _anyone_ still believe in the myths they told about her?

_“Mr. Potter,” Narcissa said, slowly descending to her knees. “I am so sorry for doubting you. I should have known that – as a Potter – you knew far more about the war than I did. Please forgive me.”_

_“Don’t worry, Narcissa.” He said, flashing a magnanimous smile. “We all make mistakes. Not every family knows the war as intimately as the Potters.”_

_“You are too kind, Mr. Potter. My own arrogance makes me sick to my stomach. Is – is there any way I can make it up to you?”_

_Sev glanced downward, smirking. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement...”_

No, he could think about that later.

At the moment, Professor Rosier was _trusting_ him! They were – this was how _friends_ talked to each other. He needed to keep her confidence. _I’ve got this. Fuck Uncle Ron; I’m Severus bloody Potter, aren’t I? This is my chance._

A number of turbulent emotions came together for Sev in that moment: the rush of his new camaraderie with Professor Rosier, the...excitement from his fantasy of humbling Professor Black, and a sinister, gleeful giddiness that came with the possibility of definitively _proving_ that Holly Tremblay was every bit as naive, childish, and foolish as he claimed. He felt euphoric and vindictive, like a powerful, courageous, righteous truthteller. Perhaps it was because of these feelings that, as he pushed back his chair and stood up to leave, Sev made a rather bold decision.

“Don’t worry _Victoria_ , I’m sure that my classmates and I can find out exactly what topics to avoid.” Sev said. And then, because Sev was never one to do things half-way, he winked.

The woman’s eyes widened, then twitched. For a brief moment, Sev wondered if he had made a horrible, foolish mistake. He rested his hands on the back of the chair and put on the cockiest smirk he could muster.

Professor Rosier closed her eyes and inhaled, long and slow and through her nose, held it, then exhaled through puckered lips. Her eyes inched open, twitched again, and then she gave Sev a gigantic, somewhat strange smile.

“Thank you for showing such maturity, _Albus-Severus_ , I know it can be difficult to keep the curiosity of your fellow students in check, but I’m sure that you’ll manage.” Sev beamed. “Perhaps once Professor Granger is more settled in, she can share what it was like being the ‘brains’ of the Golden Trio,” Victoria’s smile was unchanged, but her voice had morphed into something snide and patronizing. “I’ve heard Harry Potter was just a dreadful student, that Professor Granger was the only reason he even managed to pass his courses. Can you imagine?”

Sev’s smile faltered and his eyes hardened. _There’s no way that’s even true. We both know – she **knows** that woman is just a mental case. Why is she – my name is Sev and – _

“You’re dismissed.” Victoria said, breaking Sev’s train of thought. He awkwardly opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, then walked to the door.

“And Albus?” Victoria called. “It’s Professor Rosier.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this one was difficult to get out, tho it is a pretty long chapter. i know that two of my LOVELY readers to volunteered to beta read but...im way too excited to post another chapter lol. also, maybe more importantly actually, i really enjoy reading everyone's comments as READERS way too much and im not ready to trade even a single one of u in exchange for a beta lol. maybe in the future ill change my mind again but idk
> 
> again, thank u so much for sharing ur thoughts and analyses, loves and hates, they are SO fun to read and u guys are so freaking thoughtful!!!! it really makes the time i spend writing this fic totally worthwhile lol
> 
> i hope u guys like this chapter!!! it was difficult to write and i am hoping it turned out OK! if not? welllll i suppose this is all a learning process and hopefully next time will go better lol ok ill shut up
> 
> edit: 169 kudos. nice.

**Dear Father, Love Severus**

The great hall was filled with students. The decadent smell of roasted meat and pastry mingled with the smoke from the hearth. A dull roar of chatter echoed throughout the hall as students discussed their coursework, gossiped about teachers, and flirted with first loves. Elf-prepared dishes apparated and disapparated without interruption, and one young Slytherin girl sat with her best friends, a collection of hand-written notes bound-together with magic, and an extensively marked-up copy of _Modern Arithmancy_ opened to chapter three.

“Why do you drink coffee, Holly? You don’t seem like you enjoy it.” Claire teased.

“ _Some of us_ have serious work to do.” Holly said primly. Claire MacMillan stuck her tongue out, but Holly pretended not to notice, determined not to glance up from her textbook. That did not stop Claire from leaning over her work (in a way that was _so_ obnoxious and over-the-top that it _had_ to be intentional) and making ‘ooo-ing’ and ‘aah-ing’ sounds.

“You’re actually doing _work_ for her course? You know that none of that is going to be on our OWLS, right Holly?”

“Of course I know that.” Holly said, a little sharper than she intended. “That doesn’t mean that it isn’t...worthwhile.”

Worthwhile was both an overstatement and an understatement. On one hand, the material Professor Granger taught was esoteric. It was unlikely that theoretical runic casting would help a wizard (or a witch!) land a job with the Ministry. It was also true that Professor Granger could be difficult. Not that she was unfair! Of course she wasn’t. Nor was she mean. The difficulty was in her lectures: dense, sprawling, and abstract talks which were made even _harder_ to follow by her erratic behavior in class. Yet despite Professor Granger’s shortcomings, her lectures were also _fascinating_. Although the material was still purely theoretical, it felt like it was building to something...different.

Most students had stopped paying very close attention in Professor Granger’s course. Not only was the material challenging and impractical: their teacher also was prone to rambling. Holly might have given up like her classmates: the thought of abandoning the _substantial_ readings or daydreaming for the entire lecture would definitely be _easier_. But as frustrating as the work could be, the more Holly watched Professor Granger the more intrigued she became.

For instance, sometimes Professor Granger performed _incredible_ feats – practically as an afterthought! Once she summoned coffee with a flick of her wrist, another her chalk. Once she summoned her quill and Holly could _swear_ she didn’t even speak an incantation! The wandless spells she used were so quick and so subtle that Holly wasn’t sure what she’d seen until the third time it happened. Those moments only fueled Holly’s drive to learn _everything_ she could from Professor Granger. Who cares about whether or not abstract runic casting is on the OWLs? If Holly could learn to use magic like Professor Granger (although hopefully for more than spells than ‘accio’), Sev wouldn’t stand a chance against her in the DA.

In fact, despite the rocky start, it was getting easier to follow Professor Granger’s lectures. It still wasn’t _easy_ , but students had slowly gotten bolder since that first, _awful_ lesson with Sev. Sometimes students (even Holly – Professor Granger sometimes smiled at her questions!) would actually ask her about the material, to slow down, to go over something a second (or third) time, or even to charm her messy handwriting so that the chalkboard was legible. Professor Granger was always so gracious, and she could be very helpful! It was absurd that Professor Black held such a low opinion of her; just thinking about it made Holly’s blood boil. Just because Professor Granger was a little odd and nervous didn’t mean she wasn’t worthy of respect. The next time Holly saw her she was going give her a piece of her mi –

“Professor Granger and Uncle Ron aren’t even married anymore; he’s not going to be impressed that she likes you.”

Holly’s temper flared at the familiar voice and turned around in her chair to face a sneering Albus-Severus Potter. Holly’s hand gripped her quill so hard she thought it might break.

“What do you want, _Albus_?”

“Have you seen my owl today, Holly?”

“Why? What are you waiting for?”

Sev grinned.

“Just something I asked my parents about. Be a good girl and keep an eye out for me, will you Holly?” Sev winked. Holly’s stomach turned and she itched to draw her wand again, but she said nothing as Sev walked back to his table full of adoring friends.

“Is there something you’re not telling us about you and Sev, Holly?” Katy teased. Holly turned, furious.

“I want _nothing_ to do with him. He’s a prat and – and he’s cruel. He’s not my friend anymore.” She declared. Claire and Katy glanced at each other, both of them smirking. Holly considered smacking their heads together.

“I think the lady doth protest, too much.” Katy said, her lips curving into a smile.

“ _You’re_ the one who likes Albus, Katy. Don’t act like everyone else is just as oblivious as he is.” Holly spat. Claire was laughing, leaving Katy sputtering.

“You – you’re – I don’t – you’re _friends_ with him! You call his dad Uncle!” Katy finally got out. “Just because you’re in some sort of a lover’s quarrel right now doesn’t mean you won’t be hanging off his arm again by the end of the semester.”

Holly raised her chin up: it was a gesture she picked up from her mother. It was a little haughty, but she was Holly Tremblay (an excellent, _regal_ , and not-ridiculous name) and if it made her feel more confident, then she was entitled to act a little haughty.

“I am done with him and you should be too, Katy. He’s stupid and cruel.” Holly struggled not to look away from Katy’s flashing eyes. She kept her chin up. “I’m glad he’s too busy flirting with _every other girl in the school_ to notice you, because I don’t think you could handle Albus-Severus.”

Katy’s lip trembled. She pushed back her chair from the table. The sound of the chair’s legs abruptly scraping across the floor echoed throughout the great hall loud enough to cut through the din of chatter.

“Just because you and Sev had a fight doesn’t mean you can be a bitch, Holly.”

Without waiting for a response, Katy turned and fled, hiding her face in her hands. Claire’s amusement had faded to worry.

Holly sighed. “I was a bitch, wasn’t I?”

Claire looked ill at ease. She loved to tease, she was _immensely_ uncomfortable the moment things escalated to even mild conflict. “You know, she’s really liked Sev for a long time Holly.” Claire said, wringing her hands together.

“I know.” Holly sighed. “He just really isn’t a very nice guy. I don’t think – I don’t know that any woman should be dating him and especially not Katy.”

“Okay. I understand. I mean, you were just looking out for her, right?” Claire said warily. It felt as if she didn’t really believe Holly, that she needed her reassurance that she wasn’t hurting Katy _on purpose for no reason_. It hurt to see how poorly her friends thought of her.

“I’m telling the truth, Claire. I don’t want to date _Albus Bloody Severus_. You should have seen him with Professor Granger: he was trying to...upset her.” Holly still wasn’t quite sure what was going on there. Sev’s questions and comments in class usually _seemed_ innocuous, but they somehow always managed to shake up Professor Granger for the rest of the lesson (although she had only run from the classroom one more time after their first day). Holly glanced towards the head table. Professor Granger was talking to Professor Rosier and Professor Black, looking like a cornered animal. Holly narrowed her eyebrows.

“Sev’s a class clown. He always does that stuff.” Claire said.

“It was _different_ , Claire.”

“Ok. I believe you, Holly.”

Holly could tell Claire still didn’t believe her. _Great, my supposed best friends think I’m just a bitter, jealous ex._ Claire was fidgeting in her seat and kept shooting glances towards the exit. Holly sighed in resignation.

“Why don’t you go make sure Katy is okay, Claire? She could probably use a friend right now.”

Claire gave her a hesitant smile and reached across the table to squeeze her hand, then stood up to run after Katy. Holly felt queasy and nervous: she hated fighting with her friends. Holly glanced around her: the nearest group of students was four seats away. For the first time since her second year, Holly was alone at lunch in the great hall.

* * *

Brewing a batch of Oxycosia required a great deal of preparation. Cleanliness – of skin and equipment – was paramount. Any contaminants could lead to dire side effects, from unpredictable variations in strength to ordinary sickness to organ failure. The same was true of preparation, minor differences in timing or technique could dramatically affect strength, impact, and onset. In many ways, taking Oxycosia was not very different from playing Russian Roulette.

The first time Hermione had brewed Oxycosia, she had agonized over the proper methodology for days, then spent a full three hours brewing. She threw out her first batch, then did it again. The second time it turned out perfectly, but she brewed it a third time just to be sure. With carefully measured doses Hermione was able to kill the pain that plagued her day and night, keep her head clear, and still enjoy the subtle, quiet, warm, and slightly _guilty_ feeling that enveloped her whenever she drank the potion.

Over the years, that had changed. She no longer measured, but guesstimated. Once, after waking with significant gaps in her memory and lying in a pool of her own vomit, Hermione had sworn to herself she would stop cutting corners. That had lasted a week, and then she went back to brewing _fast_ instead of carefully. She reused the same decanters and cauldron without bothering to clean it in-between (she brewed so frequently that it felt like a waste of time). At this point, whatever strange residue had built up on the bottom of her cauldron _(possibly the aftermath of a reaction between_ _the poppy extract_ _and wormroot, especially given the high heat in the last stage_ _of the brewing process_ _)_ was there to stay.

Hermione dipped a brass ladle into the boiling cauldron. _It should be finished by now_.

Hermione had grown more comfortable in her role as a Professor over the past two weeks, but it was _taxing_. The day she had realized Harry’s younger son was in her course (and one of the crueler students) she had cried with Moaning Myrtle the entire night. Every time she looked at him sneering at her it reminded her of how much she had lost and it _killed_ her. Moreover, several of her students had been intentionally disruptive, others required extra time after class, and there had been a fight in the halls – not to mention that Professor Black and Professor Rosier approached her at lunchtime to demand a meeting later that weekend. All of those factors, coupled with the last of her Oxycosia running out early that morning, meant that Hermione needed relief _immediately_. Her hands were clammy, pins and needles danced across her skin and she was _not_ in the mood to wait.

Hermione carelessly cast a cooling charm with her fingers and drank directly from the spoon. She knew relief should be coming, but it was still out of reach. _One more_. She dipped the ladle again, drank, and her stomach _roiled_ at the taste. She waited, counting out thirty seconds. Her hands were still clammy. It felt like there was a hole in her stomach and she _hurt_ , Merlin she hurt. Hermione dipped the ladle a third time. Her forearm was on _fire_ , her stomach was sick, and the pinpricks felt as if they were burrowing ever-deeper, but more than anything she felt _afraid_. It wasn’t working, and a small, frantic, and paranoid voice in the back of her mind wondered if she would feel this way forever.

Hermione dipped the ladle in a fourth time. She counted out the seconds, but didn’t even make it to ten. The fifth time Hermione brought the ladle to her lips was the last. A rushing, overpowering feeling of warmth cascaded through her body. The pain fell away in an instant ( _why does it even bother me so?)_ and the sickness was forgotten as if it had never come ( _silly to worry about such a small thing_ ). A tight, pleasurable feeling spread across her body, from a tickle in the back of her throat, to a clenching in her chest reminiscent of an orgasm ( _not that she would know, really)_ to a heady bliss at the base of her skull. She felt _fine_.

Hermione blinked, walked to her desk, and slowly sat down. With a full batch of Oxycosia brewed, she was free to spend her time as she pleased. It was Friday evening; it would be good to get started on her lesson plans for the next week. She had a sudden thought, of her and Fleur going to tea. What a funny thought. Did she need to do something? Was she going to be late? Hermione’s head bobbed on her shoulders, back and forth and back and forth, slipping into dreams of her and Fleur and then – abruptly – her head crashed into the desk, roughly removing her from the fantasy.

_Perhaps I took too much._

Hermione slowly pushed herself up, rubbing the corner of her eye where her head had hit the table. She felt as if she was thinking of something, something important. _Oh yes, Fleur and tea._ She felt rather silly; Fleur _obviously_ wasn’t coming for tea. Her and Bill had apparated to the Ivory Coast this weekend for some sort of adventure. It would be best if she just worked on her lesson plans: that way she would have more free time next week after Fleur came back. She dipped her quill into the ink, marked a “1” on the top left corner of the page, and blacked out.

When she awoke, the “1” was still there, as was a dripping, jagged line, scrawled across the top of the page. There was a puddle of drool next her to mouth and she had a _sp_ _litting_ headache. It was disorienting: she felt as if both a great deal of time had passed since she last drank Oxycosia, and also as if no time had passed at all.

 _Still dark._ She thought, glancing out her window. _It_ _wasn’t that long. Everything is ok. I’m ok._

Her stomach surged and Hermione stumbled to the bathroom in a daze. She vomited – mostly water – gasping in between heaves.It was something that she would usually find _disgusting_ , but at the moment it didn’t bother her. It didn’t feel as if _she_ was throwing up; it felt as if it was happening to someone else, someone who wasn’t her.

A knock on the door to her quarters startled her.

_Who on earth could that be? Students shouldn’t be out of their rooms at this hour._

Hermione laughed at her own thought.

_Like that ever stopped you, Hermione Granger._

“I – I’ll be there in one moment!” She called.

Hermione flushed her vomit down the toilet. She washed out her mouth and stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a tangled, frizzy mess, like she just woke up. _I_ _did_ _just wake up._ Her pupils were dilated: big black saucers that blocked out the brown of her eyes entirely. But she was ok, she knew could do this. Whoever it was, she would tell them she was busy. They could come back tomorrow. Hermione hurriedly ran her fingers through her hair, splashed some water on her face, closed her eyes, and then –

Hermione was awoken by the crash of shattering glass and a sharp pain in her forehead. Her mirror was cracked and blood was dripping down her face into the sink.

_Oh no, no no no._

In the meantime, the knocking on her door had become much, much louder.

“Professor Granger! If you do not answer me I am going to dispel the rest of these wards and break in. Are. You. Alright?”

 _The_ _**rest** _ _? That’s not a student._

“Everything is fine!” She shouted. Frantic, hands shaking, Hermione splashed her face with water again and pressed a washcloth to the bleeding wound on her head.

 _That’s Narcissa’s friend._ _What_ _on earth_ _am I going to do?_

She braced herself against the bathroom doorframe. For a moment she was terrified that she was going to pass out again. _Think Hermione. You’re the brightest witch of your age and you cannot start nodding off in front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor._ She needed something to counteract the sleepy qualities of Oxycosia. She could do this; Hermione knew that she had brewed one, somewhere. The door pounded again.

“Professor Granger I am about to dispel these wards and break into your room if you do not let me in in the next ten seconds.”

_Oh, Merlin._

“Accio Upper-Keeper,” Hermione called with a flick of her wrist. A moment later one of her cabinets flew open and the light-orange draught was in her hands. She hesitated – only for a moment – and gulped the entire potion down. Hermione grimaced; she wasn’t as used to the sickly sweetness it carried, unlike with Oxycosia. She set the decanter down, and the familiar feeling of Upper-Keeper rushed through her body.

There were years after the war, years when Hermione had truly had nothing, that Upper-Keeper had kept her going. Despite that – or perhaps because of it –these days Hermione avoided it. Oxycosia was calming; it was a strong potion, but it was subtle, subdued. At the end of the day, Oxycosia was _safe_. Hermione was still in control. Hermione was the one in the driver’s seat. Upper-Keeper was exactly the opposite. The come-up was rapid, jarring even, and the effects were dramatic. It wasn’t just an overabundance of energy, there was a euphoria and a confidence that were so extreme they felt _fake_ , even while under the potions’ influence. Worse, that kind of artificial, magical confidence came with a _cost_.

The worst cost of Oxycosia was sleepiness and nausea, things that Hermione could handle (so long as she didn’t stop taking it). Upper-Keeper was different. Its weaknesses amplified her vulnerabilities. After the overwhelming and short-lived burst of energy, the drug – the potion – left her anxious, volatile, and deeply _scared_. She hated using it, but Victoria Rosier could not see her bleeding and falling asleep mid-conversation. Hermione shuddered. She was already dreading the future comedown. She felt the tingly rush of Upper-Keeper sweeping over her body, tinting her perception like a pair of rose-colored glasses. Hermione shuddered in pleasure and – not a moment later – there was another loud crash as her door flung open. The woman standing there was panting, her wand gripped in her fist and a wild glint in her eye. Victoria Rosier was in her quarters, looking ready to commit murder.

“What in Salazar’s name happened in here?” Victoria demanded.

“What? Nothing happened here.” _Why is she asking about that – did Narcissa say_ _something_ _? She has no right to –_

“You’re bleeding.” She said, pointing to the rivulet of blood running from Hermione’s forehead, down her cheek, dripping off her jaw and onto the floor. Hermione carefully brought two fingers to the base of her jaw and _pressed_ the wetness there. Her fingers came away red.

“Oh.” She said. Victoria was still staring at her, arms crossed underneath her breasts and an expression on her face that was somewhere between horror and suspicion. Hermione gulped. She needed a distraction, to change the subject, something, _anything_.

 _Think Hermione, you’re the brightest witch of your age, after all. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been injured by your bathroom mirror. You’re alive and you’re sane – at least sane enough to teach at Hogwarts. It’s not like Frank or Alice can say that_ _after all_ _._

“Hi Victoria, it’s good to see you.” Hermione said brightly. Perhaps a bit _too_ brightly judging from the way Victoria stared at her. No matter, there was nothing wrong with showing some confidence once and a while. Maybe Victoria didn’t realize that Hermione knew – Hermione was just as aware as Victoria of what an absurd scene she had come across. It was rather funny in a way: she came into her room to find her bleeding from her head. To show Victoria that she thought the whole situation was rather funny, Hermione gave her her broadest grin. The pureblood continued staring for a very long moment. Hermione held her grin in place as best as she was able. Victoria stared a moment longer, then waved her wand and mumbled a charm. Hermione felt a strange, tight, (though not painful) _pull_ on her forehead. Victoria nodded curtly.

“There. Now you won’t get blood all over the floor.”

The other witch glanced around Hermione’s apartment. Under normal circumstances, Hermione would have felt embarrassed. The empty, dirty glassware _littered_ her quarters. Her bed hadn’t been made in days, robes were strewn about the floor and half-written, half-crumpled pages of parchment could be found _everywhere_. But instead, Hermione felt the rush of confidence from the Keeper-Upper, the breezy psychological certainty that everything was going _fine_. And so, when Victoria’s eyes landed on the shattered bathroom mirror, Hermione laughed.

“Not the finest hour for the _brightest witch of her age_ , I promise you.” She quipped.

“How?” Victoria deadpanned. “How did you break your mirror and injure yourself? Did you headbutt your mirror? What in You Know Who’s name happened?”

“Oh – silly, really. I slipped and fell.” Hermione said, and in her opinion she pulled off saying it quite ‘matter-of-factly’. Victoria still looked suspicious. Hermione decided she needed to change the subject.

“What are you doing here, Victoria?”

Victoria’s expression morphed into her familiar, disdainful sneer.

“You agreed to speak with Narcissa and I about the dueling club.”

“That’s on Saturday.”

Victoria stared at her like she was the stupidest person in all of Wizarding Britain. “Yes. It is.”

Hermione cocked her head, so much anxiety bubbling beneath the surface that even the high of Upper-Keeper couldn’t entirely suppress it.

“Saturday.” She said again, rolling the word over on her tongue. Victoria was still staring, incredulous.

“That’s,” Hermione hesitated. “That’s, the day that we’re meeting, right?”

“Yes. Saturday. Also known as _today_.” Victoria rolled her eyes. “You really are doing your worst to live up to your reputation, aren’t you?”

Hermione couldn’t argue with that. Perhaps it was the potions in her veins, perhaps she was simply exhausted, but Hermione found a kind of black humor in her current predicament. _It’s really Saturday. It’s a wonder I’m not fucking dead._ Despite everything, shelaughed “I think at this point it’s all water under the bridge, Victoria.”

The other witch blinked, whatever snarky riposte she had planned on disappearing as quickly as it had came.

“Well,” Hermione said. “Given that it’s Saturday,” (she still didn’t quite believe it) “we’d best go see Narcissa. There’s no sense in waiting.”

“You have stains and blood all over your robes and your head is still bleeding.” Victoria said, her voice scathing. “I’ll give you ten minutes.” As Victoria walked out the door she paused and turned back to Hermione.

“If you don’t respond when I call, I’m immediately breaking down this door.”

Hermione blushed but acquiesced. When the door closed behind Victoria, Hermione launched herself into a frenzy, magicking the blood from her robes, using a clotting charm on her forehead, a glamour on her pupils, and stowing away anything and everything that she had used to brew Oxycosia, praying that Victoria hadn’t noticed them while she was in Hermione’s quarters.

_It’s Saturday. It’s really Saturday night. It’s a wonder I’m not dead._

Whether or not it was a miracle, Hermione was alive _now_ and she didn’t want to give Narcissa any reasons to worry, or (more importantly) any reasons to interact with her more often. Not to mention there was a terrifying, intimidating, woman waiting just outside her door.

Hermione was nearly ready nine minutes later, after responding to Victoria verbally checking in on her no-less than four times. She tried to look at herself in the mirror, but was reminded that she had shattered it upon entering her bathroom. She picked up a particularly large shard and held it up in front of her: perhaps it wasn’t perfect, but at least the blood was gone. Perhaps she was a little disheveled, but she felt as if she was at least presentable, if not ready for a night on the town. When she opened the door to exit her quarters Victoria Rosier was still waiting for her, tapping her foot against the wall. Victoria’s gaze roved over her from body from head to toe, making a sick, scared feeling well up in Hermione’s gut at the same time that a blush rose to her cheeks. Victoria gave a curt nod, and started walking. Hermione’s heart beat frantically and a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. Her palms were sweaty from the Upper-Keeper, and before she knew it her mouth was moving.

“We should talk more Victoria,” Hermione said rapidly. Victoria raised an eyebrow and Hermione blushed again, a dim voice in the back of her head begging her to _stop talking_ , but she couldn’t stop herself now.

“I’ve always thought Defence was fascinating, but we had very poor professors when I was in school. Of course, you’re probably a very good professor if you’re friends with Narcissa; I can’t imagine she tolerates incompetence.” Hermione laughed far too loudly. “I’m sure that there’s a lot you could teach me, if I could get past how intimidating you are.”

Victoria was staring at her like she had after finding Hermione in her room, bleeding from her forehead.

“The _brightest witch of her age_ wants Defence lessons?” Victoria deadpanned. “Do you miss being a teacher’s pet that badly?”

Hermione flinched as if she’d been slapped.

_Don’t cry now, pet. We’re only getting started._

Victoria furrowed her brows. When she opened her mouth to speak, Hermione looked away and viciously dug her fingers into her forearm. Victoria closed her mouth again without saying a word.

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

They spent the rest of the walk in silence. Victoria discretely tried to sneak suspicious glances at Hermione. She pretended not to notice.

* * *

Victoria held the door for Hermione as she walked into Narcissa Black’s office. The former-Malfoy matriarch put down her quill and set aside the parchment in front of her. Her piercing, blue eyes roved over Hermione. The younger witch suddenly felt self conscious about her appearance, while the same, strange, nauseous feeling she felt with Victoria outside of her quarters bubbled up again in her stomach.

 _Once_ _upon a time I_ _would_ _n’t_ _have dared_ _to present myself like this in public._

She prayed Narcissa wouldn’t say anything, but those hopes were immediately dashed.

“Is this ordinarily how you dress, Professor Granger?” Narcissa said.

Hermione glanced down at herself. For a moment, some disconnected part of her wondered if she would make a fool of herself, that she would be left unable to form sentences the same way she had the first time Narcissa hadvisited. Instead, the haze of Oxycosia and Upper-Keeper kept those feelings ( _any feelings, really_ ) murky and distant.

“Must I be the best-dressed witch of my age too?” Hermione joked. She’d meant it to be sardonic ( _which it was_ ), but she had also intended it to sound more jovial and less...bitter.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

_Watching. Waiting. Waiting. Watching._

“I suppose that isn’t necessary, for you. Sit.”

Hermione gave a strained smile and took a chair facing Narcissa. _This must be where she interrogates naughty students_ _._ Hermione squirmed. The room was silent except for the persistent ticking of a clock. Victoria shifted her weight in the corner. Narcissa sighed.

“Professor Granger,” Narcissa said. “As Victoria alluded to earlier, we wanted to discuss the Hogwarts Dueling Club with you.”

Narcissa leaned back in her chair, her eyes still boring into Hermione. Hermione squirmed in her chair.

“For a few years after the war, there was no dueling club at Hogwarts. Few, if any, of the professors were eager to bring back something associated with so much…trouble. Despite this, students can be _very_ persistent.” Narcissa glanced at Victoria and smiled warmly. “In my second year teaching, I restarted the Hogwarts dueling club at the insistence of a few _irritating_ sixth and seventh years.

“Since then, it’s only grown in popularity. When Professor Rosier joined the staff she helped me expand it further. Rather than just aspiring aurors in their final two years of study, students can participate as early as year four. Many of the students are quite...excited to be a part of it. They see themselves as continuing one of Hogwarts’ proudest traditions. Officially, the club is referred to as the HDC, but among the students, the dueling club is colloquially known as the DA, short for ‘Dumbledore’s Army’.” Narcissa sighed. “You can’t imagine how enamored they are with the entire mythos, and they’re utterly starstruck with the Golden Trio.”

“I can’t imagine why – or how – they’re still impressed with either of them.” Hermione said sharply. Victoria rolled her eyes, but Narcissa just continued staring at Hermione, unmoved.

“It’s not just them, Professor Granger. It’s you as well.”

“ _Still_?” Hermione laughed abruptly. “Are they not in my classes? Do they not pay attention to how I _ordinarily dress?_ ”

Victoria seemed startled, but Narcissa only narrowed her eyes.

“It takes more than a few eccentricities to disillusion students from their heroes, much as we might wish otherwise.” Narcissa said. Hermione felt her heart clench. _You said it; she just agreed you idiot._

“Maybe you’ll manage in time.” Victoria drawled. Narcissa’s head snapped to face her.

““Victoria!” The younger woman looked shocked, then castigated.

“I’m sure it will get better.” Victoria mumbled.

Narcissa’s glare lingered until Victoria looked away. When she met Hermione’s gaze again, it was just as cold and placid as before.

“Hermione,” Narcissa started. “We were hoping that you might make an appearance at the first meeting of HDC.”

“What?”

“The Hogwarts Dueling Club. We want…”

But although Hermione was still making eye contact with Narcissa, she was no longer listening. Her mind was whirring; it was startling enough for Narcissa to use her name, but the momentous occasion was overshadowed by the fact that Narcissa had employed it in her attempt to convince Hermione to…make a fool of herself? Moreover, Narcissa might have scolded Victoria for implying Hermione was a disappointment, but that didn’t mean very much when Narcissa herself had implied the _exact same thing_ just a moment earlier. A hundred humiliating scenarios flashed through Hermione’s mind: images of her stammering in front of students who looked up to her ( _who called themselves ‘Dumbledore’s Army’_ ), or paralyzed by a flashback and missing a simple counter-curse. That wouldn’t do; it was one thing to admit her shortcomings, but it was another to have an audience witness them.

_You really are a coward, muddy._

“Well,” Hermione started, sighing. She felt her energy fading, the Upper-Keeper giving way to a tight ball of anxiety. _Thank Merlin the Oxycosia hasn’t worn off. How much_ _did I even take_ _?_ _That must have been yesterday. I_ -

“Are you ever going to finish that thought, Granger?” Victoria cut in. Hermione blushed. Narcissa shot her another glare, but it must have been less severe than before: instead of looking castigated, Victoria cocked her head and grinned.

“Well, I guess it’s better that you ask me than Ron. I can’t think of any faster way to disillusion them.” Hermione laughed bitterly. “One lecture with him and the students would be wondering if Voldemort was on the right side of history.”

Narcissa glanced to Victoria. The younger woman was smirking back, looking more and more bemused as the conversation went on. Narcissa opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. No matter, what little patience Victoria possessed had run thin.

“They’ve already met the Weasel.” Victoria said. “He stops by every year. They love him, really, especially the dumb ones.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped.

“Most years.” Narcissa corrected. “He’s foolish and proud and embarrasses himself and Hogwarts every time he attends.”

“That’s Ron.” Hermione said with another brittle laugh. A million emotions swirled within her: _anxiety_ surprise, anger, humiliation, fear, sorrow, _anxiety_ , indignation, _anxiety_. Victoria was eyeing her as if she didn’t know quite what to make of her. Narcissa shifted in her seat.

“We have little control.” Narcissa said. “The Ministry is filled with fools and idealists. They will push for it and it’s best to just agree: they love the idea of the chosen one’s right-hand visiting Hogwarts, selling talented duelists on a future with the Aurors.” Narcissa twisted her mouth into a frown. “He likes to _impress_ the students with his _skill_ on the battlefield and recount his heroics from – from the war.”

And suddenly, for the first time as long as Hermione could remember, the anxiety she expected to surface was pushed away. For the first time in a long time, there was another emotion in its place: anger.

“How _dare_ he!” Hermione shouted. “ _Ron Weasley?_ _Heroics?_ When the hell did he play the hero? And he’s a bloody _rubbish_ duelist! Was he even _there_ during most of the war? Did he ever fight a duel that he didn’t lose in the first ten seconds? He’s a bloody _idiot_ and there’s no reason for him to even set _foot_ in Hogwarts!” Hermione’s breathing was heavy and her hands were shaking. Victoria was staring at her – even more incredulous than when she’d found Hermione bleeding not an hour earlier. Hermione let out a formless cry of frustration and clenched her right hand into a fist. A decanter sitting on Narcissa’s wall behind her desk shattered and the sound jarred Hermione from her reverie. She swallowed and gripped Narcissa’s desk, determined to quell the shaking in her hands.

“I will see them this year.” Hermione breathed, even her forearm started to _ache_. “I can’t embarrass myself more than Ron would.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Narcissa said. The older woman’s voice was oddly…gentle. It made Hermione even angrier, even as a voice in the back of her head begged her to take the easy way out and forget that the dueling club even existed. _Why does Ron get to mentor the next generation? He doesn't appreciate the responsibility one bears as a teacher. Did he ever even properly learn to duel? I will **not** allow Ron to bolster his ego under the pretense of mentoring while I'm relegated to a - a curiosity!_

“It’s fine, Narcissa.” Hermione said. “I want to.” Her voice cracked and a sob escaped from the back of her throat. Narcissa’s eyes flashed.

“If you can’t do this -”

“Shut up, Cissy.”

“If you can’t do this,” Narcissa snarled. “Then you don’t have to. Your pride and a decade-old lovers’ quarrel -” Hermione’s temper flared. “is not worth it if you can’t handle it. I refuse to stand by and watch you hurt yourself.”

“Not anymore, at least.” Hermione said, but although she meant it to be scathing it just sounded pitiful. Narcissa froze. Hermione buried her face in her hands to hide her tears, rushed past a speechless Victoria, and fled.

_I need another potion._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO sorry for the wait but this was an absolute nightmare to write lol. i think i rewrote the scenes in this, at least 2-3 times. one of them will still appear later (or at least pieces of it) but, i was just SO UNHAPPY with how it was going and UGH there are several thousand words that just didn't work!!!! thankfully, i think i figured it out, hopefully, tho you guys'll be the judge.
> 
> i reread so many of ur guys' comments trying to motivate myself to try again and get this chapter out and, thanks for that, it's rly thanks to u guys that im consistently writing this story. hopefully it turned out ok (it's certainly a thousand times better than my original attempt lol) and hopefully the next one comes easier!
> 
> also: briefly deleted this chapter then reposted bc my thing disappeared from the search??? idk i dont get it.

**Dreadful - See Me After Class**

Victoria was in a foul mood.

She snapped at her seventh years when they didn’t ask enough questions during a lecture on blood magic, then viciously excoriated her fourth years when they asked _too many_ questions (Claire MacMillan was practically in tears by the time the bell rang). Victoria may have regretted it if she had paused to reflect, but her thoughts were elsewhere: Narcissa was avoiding her, and she wasn’t being subtle about it.

It had been four days since Professor Granger decided to act like a lunatic in Narcissa’s office. The moment the Golden Girl of St. Mungo’s fled her quarters the head of Slytherin fixed Victoria with a _withering_ glare that made her feel like a child caught eavesdropping on a conversation she wasn’t meant to hear.

_“Get out.”_

Victoria complied.

Since then, Victoria had repeatedly attempted to reconnect with Narcissa. She sat next to her during mealtimes, only to be immediately silenced with her mentor’s most terrifying glare. _Fine_. Victoria would catch her mentor in private. The only flaw with this plan was that, so far, Victoria had found it impossible.

She pounded on the door to Narcissa’s quarters, but no one answered. She tried to catch her after Potions, but Narcissa was already gone. She tried to corner her between classes, only to find Narcissa otherwise occupied, surrounded by a gaggle of young Slytherins hanging onto her every word.

It wasn’t that Victoria _needed_ to talk to Narcissa, but _Merlin_ did she have questions. That was the only part of this situation that bothered her: she certain didn’t begrudge her mentor needing space. Victoria wasn’t so insufferably _insecure_ or _clingy_ that she would be bothered by something so trivial. That would be _ridiculous;_ Victoria was completely confident and secure in their relationship. Narcissa would come around soon enough, the two of them would brew tea, and Narcissa would explain all of this Hermione Granger nonsense in-full and from the beginning. Victoria had no doubt about that at all. In meantime, she was more than happy to give her space. It was time to be patient: Narcissa would come to her when she was ready. There was no point in wasting even more time and energy obsessing over a ten minute interaction.

Victoria just felt out of the loop. Was she _crazy_ , or did Narcissa and the Brightest Mudblood of Her Age have _history_? It was true enough that they were both part of the mythology of the Second Wizarding War (heroes even, despite Narcissa _consistently_ getting shafted in comparison with the accolades heaped upon the supposedly infallible Golden Trio) but everything written on the subject revolved around the strange, pseudo-friendship between Narcissa then-Malfoy and Harry Potter; Victoria doubted Narcissa had ever been mentioned in the same sentence as Hermione Granger. For all Victoria had known, the two witches had never even _met_ prior to the _Golden Girl_ teaching at Hogwarts. And yet, it appeared that the two witches _did_ know each other.

And why did she _defend_ the woman so _fucking_ vehemently? Oh sure, Narcissa had plenty of excuses. Sometimes she gave some half-coherent monologue about propriety, others she pretended that it was was integral to hiding the fact that they were conspiring to _force the woman out of Hogwarts._ Victoria had briefly taken her claims at face value, but after the scene in her office on Saturday it just didn’t make any bloody _sense_ anymore! Why – in muddy Merlin’s name _why_ – did Narcissa Black tear into Hermione Granger on one hand but _bit_ _e_ _Victoria’s head off_ for every snide comment she made on the other?

Something wasn’t adding up, and that was _just Narcissa_. Hermione Granger was even more of a mystery, one that Victoria intended to solve.

Strangeness was something one learned to accept in the magical world. Eccentricities were abundant, and inexplicable behavior was an unremarkable part of day-to-day life. But Hermione Granger was not _quirky_ , and even if someone less-intelligent (certainly not Narcissa) might find her behavior cute, Victoria was not so easily fooled. Grinning manically after shattering your mirror with your _face_ was not endearing, nor was it the kind of eccentricity commonplace in magical Britain. It was alarming, disturbed behavior. If the Golden Girl was dangerous and unfit to be in the company of children, that was something that Narcissa, Headmistress McGonagall, and the Ministry deserved to know. It was frustrating then, that outside of her strange confrontation in Narcissa’s office over the weekend, evidence of Professor Granger’s instability was slim. If Narcissa refused to speak with Victoria, then perhaps Albus-Severus could shed some light on Professor Granger’s behavior.

That was how Victoria Rosier ended up in her office, sitting across from Albus-Severus-Potter. At first, she was thrilled: ithad only required the slightest effort (manipulation) to convince the boy to share all he had learned from his parents’ letters with her. Unfortunately, this led to Victoria spending the next _forty minutes_ feigning interest as Albus-Severus-Potter regaled her with tales of his fathers’ wartime heroics. Victoria wasn’t sure she had ever been more bored in her life.

 _Is this really all he got from his father?_ Victoria thought for ( _at least_ ) the hundredth time. Her lip curled in distaste. _Useless. Absolutely useless._

“As fascinating as all this is,” Victoria said, interrupting some convoluted story involving Polyjuice potions and Ronald Weasley. “Did you learn anything about _Hermione Granger_?”

Albus made a face like he had just swallowed something bitter and fixed her with an _incredibly_ patronizing look. “Are you deaf?” _Deep breaths._ _“_ She’s nagging my father to death in half of these stories. It’s amazing he ever managed to get anything done, much less save Britain.”

Victoria’s eye twitched.

“I see.” She said. _Breathe in, breathe out_. “And this is all you’ve learned from your parents?”

Albus waved his hand dismissively. _“_ The woman is a fraud and she knows it; it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the world catches on.” Albus snorted derisively. “She’ll leave soon enough.”

Victoria blinked. The room was quiet enough to hear the ticking of her clock. She blinked again.

“You think...you think she’s nervous about being exposed as a fraud? Not that she’s just uncomfortable with fame, or dislikes being reminded of the war, but you think she’s worried…”

Albus smiled smugly. “She _hates_ being confronted with it. She feels the walls closing in:every time I have a new story from father it’s like she’s practically begging me to shut up.”

_She’s not the only one._

“I have clearly overestimated you, _Albus_.” Victoria said, and her frustration – not just with Albus but with Narcissa, the world, and Hermione bloody Granger – burst forth like water through a dam. “The point of writing your parents is to understand more about Hermione Granger the _woman_ , not to _expose_ her by rehashing anecdotes that have appeared in no less than a dozen history books.” The boy’s face was practically purple, but Victoria wasn’t done yet. She was too fucking _irritated_ to bite her tongue.

“Congratulations,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “You made your teacher mildly uncomfortable by reminding her that she’s a hero beloved by all of Britain. Very fearsome. At this rate she’ll be your Professor for years to come.”

“What do you expect?” Albus snarled. “She cut off all contact with my parents over ten years ago. She’ll out herself as a fraud soon enough and you’ll look a fool.”

Victoria rolled her eyes, knowing it would further enrage the young Potter. Sometimes she felt as if her life was a black farce: Albus seemed to have decided, somewhere along the way, that all of the Ministry’s accolades, all of the pomp and circumstance and complete _rubbish_ surrounding Harry Potter and the war was completely true (perhaps even _understated_ , knowing the boy) with the sole inaccuracy being that, in reality, it was the Golden Duo that saved Britain. Hermione Granger, despite being the only member of the Trio who seemed to have any nontrivial knowledge of spellcraft, was simply a freeloader. It was so ridiculous Victoria might’ve laughed, if it hadn’t _ruined_ her day and _ruined_ her plans.

“I don’t have the energy to deal with childish fantasies, Mr. Potter. You’re dismissed.”

Albus’s face grew even darker (something Victoria hadn’t thought possible) and opened his mouth to begin another tirade. Victoria possessed neither the patience nor will to deal with him.

“I said, you’re dismissed, Mr. Potter." Victoria drawled, more bored than angry. “You have five seconds before I levitate your body straight into the Forbidden Forest. _”_

For a brief moment Victoria thought that the boy might draw his wand, but for all his fury, Potter caved by the count of “three.” Her turned around with a huff and stomped away. At the door he brieflyattempted to knock a portrait of Victoria’s Aunt Freya off her wall, only to be foiled by the spells holding it in place.

Victoria smirked.

Albus Potter slammed the door.

 _That was a complete disaster._ _Why on earth did Narcissa want to involve students in this plot of hers?_ The boy was worse than useless: he was difficult. _Her_ _judgment_ _is not as prudent as it once was._ She would be better off working alone; Victoria had more important things to do than assuage the ego of Albus Severus. There were questions that _needed_ answers.

Victoria leaned in back in her chair ( _dragonhide_ _spindles,_ _cork-root armrests_ ) and closed her eyes. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with Hermione Granger. Perhaps she was overreacting. Yet every time Victoria started to convince herself that Hermione Granger was merely far-more eccentric than the history books claimed, an image of the woman’s face flashed through her mind: grinning like a kid on Christmas morning and dripping with blood.

No, there was _definitely_ something unusual going on, and Victoria was determined to figure it out. The problem was that she had no way to investigate further. Victoria wasn’t _friends_ with Hermione Granger. Victoria wasn’t even sure the woman _had_ friends, not after learning that she had fallen out with her ex-husband. _Another thing we have in common._ And then, Victoria had an idea.

Much later, Victoria would come to believe, for better or worse, that this was one of the most consequential moments in her life, that she had come to a crossroads and if she had only decided differently, that the next decade of her life would have turned out entirely different.

At the time, however, she gave it little thought, and before she knew it the witch was walking up the dungeon staircase, through the warmly-lit halls of Hogwarts, closer and closer until she heard the din of laughter beyond the thick, wooden door of Professor Granger’s apartment. Victoria breathed out through her nose. She brought her knuckles up, then hesitated, unsure if this was a silly plan or if – Merlin forbid – she was about to make a fool of herself.

_You just need a chance to snoop around. You won’t be "friends" for long._

With that thought as comfort, she knocked.

There was a brief clamor and she heard voices, muffled, barely audible voices that had been laughing together a minute ago. Victoria furrowed her brow. _Professor Granger_ _had_ _friends_? Her plan felt more and more ridiculous with every passing second. Yet just as Victoria’s resolve wavered, just as she teetered on the verge of walking away and abandoning this foolish venture entirely, the knob turned and the door opened, revealing a very flushed and giddy Hermione Granger, looking as relaxed as Victoria had ever seen her. The Gryffindor’s mouth opened in a small “o” and her eyes ran up and down Victoria’s body.

“’Ermione, who is that interrupting us now?” Professor Delacour teased.

“It’s just Professor Rosier, Fleur. She’s…” Hermione hesitated, then trailed off, letting the unfinished sentence hang like a question.

Every part of Victoria’s body screamed for her to castigate Professor Granger, to explain to her in no-uncertain terms that Victoria would _never_ associate with _entitled, hypocritical_ , _vainglorious_ , _mudbloods_.

Instead, Victoria forced herself not to sneer, contorting her face into what she imagined must be a warm smile.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

* * *

On most days, it was difficult to concentrate in _Advanced Magics for Year Four._ A large part this was due to the behavior of Albus Severus Potter.

It had started small: Albus and his cronies chattering with one another in the corner. Professor Granger asked “the class” to stop talking, which worked for a day before they resumed gossiping with each other even more brazenly than before. Holly was used to Professors letting Albus get away with antics that would see any other student severely punished, but if _anyone_ should be able to discipline a Potter it should be _Hermione Granger_! And yet, instead of removing points or assigning detention, Professor Granger only frowned, flicked her wrist, and suddenly – to the rest of the classroom – they were silent. It didn’t make any _sense!_

It was true that when Holly had learned that Hermione Granger was going to be her professor, she had made some incorrect, faulty assumptions. Holly knew that now: she was very mature for her age, after all, and she was _more_ than happy to adjust her perspective in light of new information. The problem was that this – this just didn’t make _sense_! So Holly had returned to her history books, scouring them for any mention of the now-legendary witch. Had she misread? Misinterpreted? Where had she gone wrong?

Holly started with her beloved _Caliban_ (of course), then moved on to Lovegood’s _Hermione Granger: The Hogwarts Years._ Strangely, although these two books were written by two different men with diametrically-opposed interpretations of the Second Wizarding War, (not to mention they absolutely _loathed_ one another) both sources offered remarkably consistent portrayals of Professor Granger: consistent and _wrong_. But even though Holly now knew these characterizations were misleading, she didn’t understand _how_ or _why_. There were _numerous, first-hand_ interviews present in both (especially _Lovegood_ _)_ that delved into Professor Granger’s character. The woman described in the interviews was brilliant ( _clearly_ ) and kind ( _of course_ ) and ( _pretty_ ) she _loved_ learning, but she was also _brash_ , a bit of a stickler to rules, and so utterly _Gryffindor_ in the face of adversity. The woman Holly read about would have been _furious_ at the thought of one group of students hindering the rest from learning. The Hermione Granger of the _The Hogwarts Years_ wouldn’t have hesitated to remove Albus, Keegan, Fred, and the rest of them from her classroom and saddle them with detentions for a month.

And yet, Professor Granger seemed unwilling to _ever_ discipline Albus and his friends, no matter how nasty they were. Worse, they had started to become bolder. When Albus directed a question towards Professor Granger his voice would suddenly become audible, but _every single time_ he only wanted to talk about the war (especially his father’s heroics), and _every single time_ Katy would _giggle_ as if he’d done something extraordinarily clever. Once, after Holly mocked him for _constantly_ bringing up his father ( _you_ _really_ _must love your daddy, huh Albus?_ ) _,_ Keegan tried to hex her, only (to everyone’s, including Holly’s, surprise) for it to ricochet back at him and cover his face in boils.

As usual, Professor Granger didn’t see fit to punish him. The only manner in which she even acknowledged that it _happened_ was by sending him on his way to Madam Bones. Still, at least no one had tried to hex Holly again since the incident, so she counted it as a _minor_ victory.

Even without ( _immature, nasty,_ _stupid_ ) students causing trouble, just as many students lost focus entirely due to Professor Granger’s rambling. There was nothing that passed slower than a Professor Granger lecture when she started stuttering and sputtering, utterly incapable of finishing an anecdote which usually didn’t seem especially necessary to delve into in the first place. It was made even _harder_ to focus on by the fact that, even silent, the entire classroom could see Fred Weasley animatedly telling a story to his friends’ raucous laughter.

And yet, today was different. It was a special day in Professor Granger’s classroom. Today, they were casting actual _spells_.

After weeks of not even _touching_ her wand, Holly was thrilled. It felt momentous: as if the beginning of Holly casting spells – spells that were taught to her by _Professor Hermione Granger_ _–_ was also the beginning of a brand new chapter in her own life story.

Unfortunately, reality was not as cooperative as her imagination. Despite Professor Granger demonstrating the motions multiple times, Holly could not quite _get_ it. She knew she was close, but despite her wandwork looking _perfect_ from her own perspective, absolutely nothing was happening. Glancing around the room, she saw that she wasn’t the only one (although, to Holly’s dismay, Keegan Rosier and Camilla Cabot had managed to produce some sparks, which was _much_ better than nothing.) Albus seemed irritated that his friends were more engaged with the lesson than trying to taunt Professor Granger.

Holly grew more and more frustrated with herself. She wanted to do _something_. She wanted to impress Professor Granger, and she wanted to do it _before_ her professor walked around the room and stopped at Holly’s desk. She wanted to prove that she could catch on quickly _and_ do it on her own. Professor Granger _had_ to be impressed, she just _had_ to: Holly didn’t think she could handle it if she lost out to _Keegan Rosier_.

Her jaw was set in a determined line: she focused as intensely as she could, her wand moving with utmost precision, closed the seven pointed star and spoke: “ _Akinamorae.”_

“Very well done, Ms. Tremblay.”

Holly’s head snapped to the left and came face to face with the twinkling eyes of Professor Granger.

“But – but I didn’t even _do_ anything!” Holly pouted. “I formed it as close as I could and it still didn’t do anything.”

“Oh?” Professor Granger said, her voice light with amusement. Holly wanted to sink into the ground and disappear forever. _She’s patronizing me; she thinks I’m just a dumb kid_.

“Let me show you.” Professor Granger said, smiling gently (perhaps not _so_ patronizing after all). And then, Holly’s world changed. She could have sworn a choir of angels was singing hymns in the distance, because at that moment Professor Granger took Holly’s hand in her own (oblivious to Holly’s furious blushing) and guided her movements, drawing out the shape with her wand with painstaking care.

“You need to be careful when you make the loop in the top right,” Professor Granger said. “It’s tricky, you need to make it as tight as it can be, but not so slight that an observer couldn’t tell whether or not you moved clockwise or counterclockwise.”

Holly bit her lip and turned to Professor Granger, her heart racing.

“Oh, um, ok thanks.”

Holly wasn’t sure what else to say – or if she _should_ say anything else. She was torn between wanting Professor Granger to leave so that she didn’t embarrass herself further, and wishing that she would stay next to her forever. The older woman smiled at her, so warm and affectionate it made her heart race.

“Of course. Let’s go through it a few more times.”

Professor Granger led her through the motions again, just as carefully as before, pointing out other details she had left out the first time along the way. Holly’s face was bright red: too overwhelmed to even stammer out an apology.

“I know it can be really difficult to pick up on.” Professor Granger said softly. She removed her hand from Holly’s ( _she immediately felt the loss_ ). “I’m sorry; I hope that was helpful.” Professor Granger frowned, scratching her forearm. “I’m trying to be a better teacher, but I’m afraid my mind doesn’t work as…smoothly, as it once did. In a way, I’m learning just like you are.”

Holly gaped at her teacher. “What! But – but you’re brilliant!”

Professor Granger only laughed. “Well, I’m glad to have your vote of confidence Ms. Tremblay.” Her eyes twinkled and Holly felt her heart do a flip. “Maybe someday, with a little help from you and your classmates, we can turn nonspecific-brilliance into teaching-brilliance.’”

Holly nodded. She felt like Ms. Granger might have been joking, but she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to pretend Professor Granger was a great teacher already. On the other hand, her professor didn’t seem _too_ upset about it, so Holly decided she was better off staying honest. It was always prudent to remain credible, after all. Still, Holly couldn’t help but think Professor Granger deserved encouragement just as much her students.

“I think you’re getting better every day.” Holly declared. Because it was true, wasn’t it? Professor Granger was getting better at organizing her lectures, and she was really helpful one-on-one. Of course, even if Holly had been lying it would have been worth it for _t_ he smile that lit up Professor Granger’s face. It was utterly blinding: _happy_ in way that Professor Granger had never looked before. It made Holly’s heart clench and filled her with confidence: confidence that came from the fact that _she_ had made her odd, melancholy professor smile like she was the happiest woman in the world. And so, instead of stammering incoherently until Professor Granger moved on to the next student, she decided to push her luck.

“Can I ask you something else?” Holly said.

“Of course you can, Ms. Tremblay, you are my student.” Professor Granger said, sounding more bemused than anything. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” Holly felt her confidence rapidly fading. _The Brightest Witch of Her Age is looking at you. She’ll answer anything you ask. What if you just imagined it?_ Holly hesitated. _It’s too late to back out now._

“I’ve seen you grab stuff.” Holly blurted out. Professor Granger cocked her head. “Without your wand. Like accio, you just flip your hand and,” Holly flicked her wrist demonstratively. “and then they come to you!”

“Is there a question in there, Ms. Tremblay?” Professor Granger’s eyes were dancing and _oh_ _Merlin_ _she’s teasing me._ _Hermione Granger_ _is teasing me like we’re friends!_

“Yes,” Holly blushed. “How do you do it? I’ve never seen anyone do wandless magic like that. Is it just _accio_ or is it other spells? Is it related to the material in this course? It’s really amazing – I – I’ve never seen anyone do magic like that.”

“Very, very perceptive, Holly.” Professor Granger said ( _she called me ‘Holly!’)_ “No, it’s not just _accio_ , although it isn’t _every_ spell I know either.” Professor Granger quirked her lips into a half-smile. “Although, there are some spells that can _only_ be done with these techniques. But we’ll learn more about those later.”

“But how do you do them wandlessly? And wordlessly? Right now,” Holly gestured with her wand. “We’re making such elaborate shapes and using incantations to cast the spells and they’re still _so difficult_.”

Professor Granger hummed in approval. “Those are _exactly_ the right questions to ask: perhaps you’ll be the brightest witch of _your_ age Ms. Tremblay.” Holly flushed even darker than she thought possible: she couldn’t look in her professor’s eyes anymore or her heart was going to _explode_.

“I started off the same way you did: with patterns and incantations.” Professor Granger drew her wand and drew a pattern so fast Holly could have blinked and missed it. Her coffeecup flew across her desk, weaved its way around two students’ heads, and came _dangerously_ close to sloshing over the edge and onto the floor (but never spilled a drop), before finally landing in her hand, safe and secure.

“But – unlike with ordinary spells – the key to this type of magic is the rune. The entire spell is the pattern – and the thought that accompanies it. Incantations help with it, especially when one is flustered,” Professor Granger added the last part almost to herself. “But they’re not necessary. All that matters with this type of magic, truly, is the pattern and the _intention_ of the caster.”

Holly furrowed her brows. Professor Granger’s explanation made _sense_ , _sort-of_ , but _s_ omething still wasn’t adding up. She hesitated, debating whether or not she should ask a follow-up question, or simply thank Professor Granger and move on. She didn’t want to ruin their interaction: it had been _so lovely_ thus far. What if she screwed it up by looking stupid? Maybe she should quit while she was ahead. And yet, Professor Granger was looking at her expectantly, as if she was just _waiting_ for Holly to ask another question. The girl pursed her lips.

“But that doesn’t tell me how you do it without forming any patterns at all!”

Professor Granger looked _absolutely ecstatic._

“Well Ms. Tremblay,” she said. “That’s because I’m still forming patterns.” Professor Granger flicked her wrist and her coffeecup flew out of her hands (one student near jumped out of their desk, startled as it flew past) and back to her desk at the front of the room. Holly’s eyes widened.

“Your fingers!”

“Very, very clever, Ms. Tremblay.” Professor Granger beamed at her in approval. “Ten points to Slytherin.”

Something about this little exchange – the interaction between teacher and student – felt _special_. For the first time, Holly felt like there was a real connection between her and Professor Granger. It was like something out of her daydreams: and maybe Holly wasn’t _quite_ as quick or cool as in her imagination, but it was every bit as wonderful (if not moreso). Her mentor, the ( _beautiful)_ brilliant brains of the Golden Trio had just recognized Holly for her talents. Holly would remember this moment forever: it was perfect, the start of something new, and nothing could ruin it.

“ _Locomotor_ _!_ ” called a voice that Holly knew all-too-well.

The coffeecup whipped back across the room and Professor Granger raised her hands _just in time_ to keep the heavy mug from cracking her head open.Coffee splattered all over her face and hair and the remainder of the cup dripped down the front of her robes. Professor Granger looked dazed, as if she hadn’t yet processed what had happened. Holly’s mouth dropped, along with several other students. Severus and his friends were howling they were laughing so hard. Holly glared at her former-friend, but he was too busy laughing with his crew to pay her any mind.

For a moment, Holly thought Professor Granger would kick them out of her class, even hex them, she seemed _so_ angry. For a moment, the way her eyes flashed, Holly couldn’t for the life of her remember why students thought she might be weak, or a pushover. For a brief moment, Holly could have sworn that Professor Granger looked _formidable_.

But the moment she turned to see that it was _Albus-Severus_ Professor Granger seemed to crumple: shrinking into herself, fidgeting with her arm (like she always did),and looking so much smaller than before.

“Sorry Professor – I.” Albus broke into another fit of wheezing. “I thought we were practicing Accio with the cup after you kept on –” Albus started laughing even harder. “Moving – Moving it across the room.”

Professor Granger said nothing, only raised her hands to her face, breathing more heavily, and all Holly could think was _please don’t cry_. Albus and his friends were still cackling, and some of the other students were whispering to each other as Professor Granger stood there, stock-still next to Holly’s desk with her hands covering her face.

“Mr. Potter,” Professor Granger started. “Please don’t – Please do not cast spells that have nothing to do with the lesson at hand.”

“But Professor,” Albus snickered. “I thought it was important: you kept showing little Holly here, so it must be _somewhat_ relevant, unless she still hasn’t mastered _accio_.”

Albus grinned brazenly and one of his friends laughed even harder at his antics. Professor Granger still had her face buried in her hands.

_Say something. Take away points. Give him detention. Hex him. Anything. You can do it I know you can do it Prof-_

“I – I think that’s – that’s enough for today.” Professor Granger stuttered. “Class dismissed.”


End file.
